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Chapter Text

The Incheon airport screams in color and chaos as if it’s not early into Monday morning.

People push, footfalls heavy and hurried, words a mixture of hushed voices and loud ones – each individual sunken into their own color of chaos, oblivious and already somewhere to be despite their physical presence. She weaves through the crowd like she’s already memorized the patterns, each crocheted loop, features schooled into what can only be described as thickening ice under December’s snow. Her fingers curl into one another, gaze level, the sound of her heels clicking against tiled floor a statement to highlight the storm she’s bringing in after years in America – a terrifying, productive one that only has one sole purpose, and that’s to right what doesn’t make sense.

Like a bulldozer tearing through traffic, she ignores each glance she attracts, each whispered admiration that she’s used to, and fixates on the billboard that’s more of a menace than an advertisement. Ire getting the best of her, the threat of corruption teetering her onto vehemence and a desire to berate with just one word, a man in a three-piece suit that’s two sizes too large and askew almost becomes a casualty.

Kang Rumi smoothens the palm of her hand against the braid she’s worn tightly, flattens the imaginary purple strands that’s broken free as the man’s cursing dissolves into the madness she’s seeing right in front of her – irrelevant and eaten away by the smile of some washed up celebrity holding up one of their products like he’s been born into it. By the way she knows how he landed here without obstructions, she knows he might as well be. Her hand twitches from the vexation that’s sitting squarely on her shoulders as she exhales, and fights the urge to dial out and call the perpetrator; some things are better done personally.

Mira falls behind her – a splash of pink hair and barely muttered apologies, hands occupied by luggage, and the emotional baggage of having to deal with the perpetual walls and lack of any emotion but work that makes up Kang Rumi. She pushes her glasses up the length of her nose as she follows Rumi’s line of sight, already understanding that the silence is the calm before the storm.

“Sajang-nim,” she says as she smoothens out the lapels of her coat, and clears her throat. Rumi makes no move to address her, and settles on burning holes on the photo of a D-list celebrity that’s been thrown into the abyss due to a cheating scandal ages ago.

Mira faintly hears Rumi’s tongue click at the back of her teeth before she unfolds her phone like she always does when she’s decided what to do with the problem. “Celine doesn’t even know she’s being taken advantage of.” She says, eyes piercingly fixated on an opened proposal Mira knows never came through to either of their desks. “Director Choi’s bold to use his nephew as a model – some nobody.” She says it like it’s a curse, and Mira almost considers that it might as well be. “This is the last time something like this will happen.”

The tone of her voice suggests that it’s immediate, and Mira knows that she’ll be a placeholder once again while Rumi chases away what she thinks needs to be dealt with this very second. She can almost see how thin Celine will press her lips before launching into a rant about Rumi’s contribution to her hypertension, and how awful of an Executive Secretary Mira is for letting Rumi have her way like she always does.

Sometimes, she likes to pretend she doesn’t hear anything. Sometimes, she gets back at Rumi by changing her schedules based on the chairman’s whim. Most of the time, this is just a normal Monday.

Kang Rumi walks away like she’s about to herald a war. Mira falls after her like a wounded soldier ready to die.

Mondays blend with the long, winding selection of freezers humming under fluorescent lights like usual – a weekday no different than Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays with Fridays being an exemption from the framework of passion embedded in stability. Each squeak of rubber against tiled floor, each hushed complaint about Monday being too eventful, too much dissolving into the abyss of his hyper-fixation – just whispers in the wind, fading behind the soft humming of the air-condition and the freezer that’s set just about right to preserve the produce, the meat, the fish that he's dedicated his whole life to. His coffee sits cold by the side of the mackerel he’s been hovering above for the past hour, black and untouched, bitter with just the right amount of leftover coffee granules that’s gathered from an untouched coffee maker somewhere in the shared pantry.

He holds the pipette above it like it’s science, like this is a chemical experiment he’s about to divulge, and deposits two drops of sesame oil onto the fish that’s splayed and fileted on a pan. He smiles like he solved world hunger, and allows himself to whistle out a sigh that’s more smug than exhaustion.

This is where he belongs, where he’s born to be, and Jinu won’t have it any other way despite the fact that his cheeks are twenty-seven degrees colder than normal, eyes twitching in exhaustion every once in a while. He takes a sip of his previously scalding hot coffee that’s grown cold and stale, and just looks head-on, excitement coloring him in as if spending time with fish and color-coded notes is a vacation worth a million won.

Director Yeo comes in all silvery hair and glasses that barely hints what the colors of his eyes are, clipboard tucked – a man of mystery despite how loud he can get when chastising Associate Director Gye.

“Time to go,” he says as he adjusts the frame of his glasses, and Jinu, if he squints, can almost see the amber in them and also the exasperation that’s likely caused by Gye Zoey’s non-stop prattling.

“Can’t I skip this?” Jinu asks as if the inauguration is a thorn in his side, as if waiting for an hour for the mackerel to marinate whilst taking notes is saving the world from eternal damnation.

“No,” he says simply, and disappears like a phantom of silver and lavender hair with glasses three sizes too big.

Jinu follows reluctantly despite smelling like the sea.

He’s a threat to Director Yeo’s perfume of pine and wood, and he makes it known with a raised hand and an instruction to stay several seats away from the team. From the group, Baby, a grown man who’s decided to label himself as such, scrunches up his nose and Jinu fights the urge to stick out his tongue in feigned offense despite the fact that he wears the smell of seafood and scum like a badge of honor most days.

“Do you think she’s hot as they say she is?” Zoey starts as she glances towards Jinu with a look of curiosity filtered by gossip shared between stale coffee and workday exhaustion.

Director Yeo frowns at this as he angles his shoulder to act as a divide between the two that’s ineffective, relenting himself to the whirlwind of the he said, she said that made its way to Zoey’s vernacular. “Streets say she is.”

Jinu bristles at that as he shakes his head and gestures towards the rows of men in black like chess pieces guarding the woman dressed in a sleek white three-piece suit and hair greyed in certain places as if it’s deliberate, as if it’s a fashion sense. Jinu thinks it’s corny.

“What street are you even on,” he says and makes no attempt to lower his voice by a pitch despite the straying looks he’s getting from onlookers who are dressed as employees.  He waves a hand as if the very idea of Kang Rumi looking anywhere near a nine or ten is physically revolting, and rolls his eyes as punctuation to end and further his point. “No niece will look hot from that gene.”

“They’re not related, dumbass.” Baby pipes up quickly as if his life depended on defending a CEO who they’ll barely see after this inauguration.

A smart reply bubbles from his throat, but is tossed at sea by the sudden silence the atmosphere is shifted into. Clothes hung on bodies rustle in the silence, cameras clicking and sounding like they have never stopped, and chairs scrape into places as a mic gets tested out of its willpower by three taps – the room is commanded, everyone is holding their breath.

“Thanks for coming,” a sturdy voice, but filled with a joy Jinu attributes to hosts who wear happiness like it’s a façade speaks through, and says something about the young CEO’s welcoming speech.

If he strains his neck and presses his ear into an imaginary wall, Jinu can hear the collective and controlled way the audience has held their breaths.

Steady footfalls resound the hall, but the sound of heels against the platform is less commanding, more submissive and curt than he’s expected. A whiff of rose, and a combustion of pink enters, and something shifts that it makes him doubt that this is Kang Rumi. She stops by the podium like she’s done this before out of her own will, and something in the way her lips are pressed into a thin line tells Jinu she’s a scapegoat than the person they have been anticipating.

“Oh, she really is pretty.” Zoey mutters from beside Director Yeo.

She clears her throat like it’s a typical Monday. “President Kang thanks you all for coming today, and wishes she can be here, but unfortunately, something came up.”

Jinu laughs like it’s the best sitcom he’s ever seen. Chairman Celine rises from her chair ready to throw her cane like it’s a javelin, and yells something about two conniving bastards out to kill her.

The elevator back up is a confetti of gossip charged by the charade earlier that’s done nothing to the chairman’s blood pressure than elevate it. From beside him, Zoey babbles about the stunt, and assigns Kang Rumi’s personality to her like it’s a piece of clothing and declares their similarities like a skewed simile.

“Sure, you’re both alike,” Director Yeo states, voice ladened in sarcasm and defeatism as they carry themselves out, and into their shared office.  

“I’m just saying – she went to Harvard, I took a Harvard course on LinkedIn!” She says, practically swoons at the self-imposed likeness. “I bet she likes turtles, too, Mystery.”

“Again, stop calling me that.” Yeo adjusts his glasses, and for the umpteenth time since he’s been assigned this nickname, Jinu thinks it suits him. “Anyway, team dinner to celebrate our merman here.”

“I’ll pass,” he says, waves it off as he looks at the director like he’s a lifesaver in the middle of the ocean, and promises to talk about it tomorrow.

“Guess we’re celebrating without the celebrant then.”

Jinu clutches his phone like it’s told him he’s won a lottery – and maybe he did by the way Ha-Ri’s told him to come straight to the restaurant.

Abby: Don’t mess this up.

But he does in a form of a cake on the floor that might as well be his heart. He clutches the tickets like they personally offended him; he decides today isn’t worth living.

She walks in the golf course like a queen ready to whisper “check-mate” – neat black slacks, and a jacketless three-piece suit that’s rolled just below her elbows. Kang Rumi presses a hand on the side of her head, and runs her palm absentmindedly down her braid like she’s asking for perfection from perfection. A golf club sits by her shoulders like it’s fate, like it’s a weapon of controlled ire – a temporary blade that’s then discharged to hit an abandoned golf ball poorly executed.

Everything Director Choi does is poorly executed as it seems.

It lands perfectly into the hole ten yards away, and elicits a cacophony of applause and praises she knows she will turn to horror once she’s done with him. Her eyes flicker over to the box they’re carrying, and takes in the sight of a lackey and a mistress crowding over a man who thought he has power over just about everything.

How can you wield power when you corrupt it? It’s meaningless, tasteless, easily executed by a governing body who’s been an understudy for quite too long.

Rumi fights a smile – victory isn’t there yet.

“Sajang-nim Kang Rumi, a pleasure,” he says, rolls the ‘R’ in her name lazily, like it’s an offense disguised in politeness. He extends his hand for her to shake, which she reaches out to with a club to communicate the distance. He frowns; she ignores it. They stay beside him like a Greek chorus surrounding a fool; she’s losing her patience.

“Director Choi, I saw the billboard of your nephew at the airport.” She says more of an admonishment than mere observation. She shifts her stance; he backs away like a cornered cow. “I just came here to say that I’ve seen and personally reviewed the deals you’ve been making without my aunt’s approval.”

He reddens like a ripe tomato that’s been sautéed, and almost chokes at his own tongue. Rumi commits it to memory. “Celine doesn’t mind – “

“Celine won’t be making any of the decisions now that I’m here.”

Rumi moves the queen vertically, and declares checkmate. Director Choi remains at the board like someone forgot to bring an umbrella when she rained on his parade.

Honmoon’s building offers a cold and unrelenting audience to Celine’s exasperation spoken in broken prophecies of fairness, gratitude, and duties, heels clicking against the tiles like it’s instrumental to the lambaste that’s coming out of her lips like it’s a freight train.

Mira’s lips twitch at the sight, and offers no shoulder for Rumi to cling onto as she settles to standing by like an audience watching a man being run over. A highlight despite the typical back and forth – something to latch on as if she doesn’t share the exasperation Celine has when Rumi bends something that’s unmalleable to her will.

“You’ll be the death of me,” Celine says as she clutches onto her chest that’s every bit of dramatic, and the ghost of a smile on Rumi’s lips almost sends her to cardiac arrest.

“I just took care of business like a normal CEO would,” she replies smartly, and Mira assigns herself a point for knowing exactly what Rumi will say despite the onslaught of admonishment.

“This isn’t normal.” Celine almost throws her cane at her niece, and resorts to pacing instead, ignoring her phone trilling asking her to watch her dramas and drink her heart medicine. “What’s normal is attending the inauguration and then spending your evening at home, preferably with a husband.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” Rumi flattens a hand against her braid as she feels her skin prickle. “I’m too young to get married.”

“I don’t care, and you will. I’m not getting any younger, and after the stunt you pulled,” Celine tuts. “You owe me this. Moving forward, you’ll be attending at least ten blind dates in a week. Mira clear her schedule starting tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sajang-nim.” Mira feels like she’s won the lottery.

“I’m opting out of this.”

“The only way to opt out is to get married.”

Celine assigns herself another point. Rumi scans her brain for anything to get her out of this.

His sister has always been a ball of chaos and fury, and Jinu blames their mother entirely for this despite the fact that it’s his fist that connected on their neighbor’s jaw like it belonged there.

“Eight hundred thousand won,” his mother says like a sigh that’s lost its air as she looks between the two of them like they’re not hers, and entirely their father’s. “Where will we get eight hundred thousand won, Gwi-ma?”

“We can make a deal with the devil,” Jinu quips despite himself, despite the ache that he still feels in the shape of Melomance’s tickets. His sister thinks it’s funny; his mother threatens to throw him out the house with a fist.

“No one’s making a deal with a devil.” His father says, calm as ever, like an unperturbed river despite his mother throwing rocks at it. “We’ll figure it out.”

And Jinu knows to some extension that when they say we, they meant him.

He dreams of chickens chasing him with cake in their feathers, and tickets tucked in their beaks and suddenly Tuesday doesn’t feel like Mondays to Thursdays anymore, but a personal hell that’s asking him to balance out his savings like his brain is a spreadsheet. He clutches at his raven locks as if that will bring him the money he needs and ignores Abby’s complaints about being a chaebol that’s destined to love three-piece suits that smell like money than sex and actual affection.

“You have to help me,” Abby says after his tirade that’s accompanied by a piece of bulgogi being waved back and forth like it’s a flag asking to surrender.

“I helped you the last time; I even got a shaman.” Jinu says as he drinks the coke as if it’s liquid gold, as if the soda can bring him life into his otherwise greyscale one that’s destined to be perpetually single and in debt.

“Come on, man.” Abby whines like it will be any different, as if the octave will sing him into saying yes.

“No; I think half of your chaebol circle already knows my face. You’re putting a target on my back. Forget it – I have bigger problems.” Jinu retreats back into his poorly drawn solitude with his head colliding on the table with a thump.

“What if I can solve them?” Abby replies, and Jinu’s ears almost perk up in interest. “Eight hundred thousand won, and then never again.”

Abby waves off the cash like it’s his to spend. Jinu eventually makes a deal with the devil.

The blond streaks in his hair should be absurd, but Jinu mentally argues it adds flair, a necessary ensemble to the cropped, mesh shirt that’s hanging just above his navel – scandalous, enough to scare a CEO that’s looking forward to marry three-piece suits that smell like smoked honey, caffeine, and ego. He ignores the chill that runs up his spine, and chalks it up to the weather as he takes his place adjacent her like a pawn that’s not exactly a pawn but a king ready to announce defeat.

He takes note of her purple hair and her face that’s an undercurrent for no nonsense, and thinks that even under the circumstances, she’s attractive and exactly his type.

Too bad.

He extends a hand that’s adorned with too many rings like he’s born to do this, and he puts in a grin that’s more mischief uncontrolled than managed. “Jin Ah-Bin – nice to meet you, and who might this sexy lady be?” He drawls and aims for her to wince; she doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Kang Rumi,”

Chapter Text

Seoul’s skyline from above Honmoon’s pristine glass walls boast a certain type of quiet that’s perturbed with caffeine, emotional labor, and neon lights that never seem to fade under sunlight glares. Kang Rumi shifts in her seat like the world owes her productivity and quality, fingers clasped together like she’s resolving a mathematical equation that insulted her for not making any sense – brows furrowed and lips straightened in that perpetual frown that never is one. The food development team’s fiscal report is a blur of colors and projections as she tries to solve the problem Celine had handed her on a silver platter – how do you counter someone playing checkers in chess? Impossible – unfair.

Her nails bite crescents on the backs of her hands as an arbitrary line gets crossed. Mira tries to hide her smirk.

“First one is in an hour,” her voice pierces through the silence like a jackhammer – entirely unwelcome and explosive as her eyes skitter towards the list that Celine had sent over as if she had been preparing for it for years.

A purple head perks up as annoyance comes forth, and settles on her features in waves that Mira can tell as desperation if you squint. “First one?” Rumi echoes as if saying the very sentence can be used as a key to turn the lock that’s preventing her to exit.

“First of ten.” She clarifies as she scrolls through the iPad like it’s a spreadsheet with numbers that are asking to be corrected, and from the space between the screen and her lashes, she sees Rumi recoil in horror as if one of the researchers presented an unconventional way to cook and sell kimchi. She wishes she took a picture. “There are a hundred in the list; ten’s what we can do today and in the area.”

Celine’s a menace – an efficient menace at that.

Rumi presses the heel of her palm on the side of her braid as if she’s disciplining one of the purple strands to behave even when they already are, and grits her teeth. Mira watches Rumi go from one emotion to another, sees the cogs turn in her head as she tries to solve a puzzle that will get her out of the situation before coming up empty handed.

“I have a meeting in an hour.” Rumi says instead as if her calendar that’s screaming empty can be rectified with Zoom calls with board members. Mira abandons her station to hand her a freshly printed file that’s color coded based on the area where the dates are supposed to be held like the goddess Circe – chaos harbinger.

“Chairman Celine asked me to clear your schedule for today.” Mira replies as if it’s common sense and watches as Rumi skims over each name that’s screaming to her in vibrant colors – a horror game of Celine’s doing.

“I don’t understand how this is helping the company.” Rumi replies as she casts a glare towards Mira, which is only met by an expression of neutrality and a hint of amusement.

“It’s helping me,” she mutters under her breath that’s met with a cocked brow. Mira doesn’t deflate and instead makes way towards the door. “The car is waiting for you downstairs, Sajang-nim.”

Everything blurs into a mosaic of curated backgrounds woven together like anthologies or resumes, and Kang Rumi finds herself pregnant with irritation and on the brink of caffeine intoxication. She holds onto the elevator’s railing for dear life as half-baked words, university degrees, and musk cling onto her like a sinner asking for penance, names now written in illegible cursive.

“This is too much,” she says as she presses her fingers against her eyelids, and thinks of all the suit and ties she’s met today; none of them having enough personality to convince her hand in marriage, and most being too misogynistic. A housewife – hilarious. “Who goes on ten blind dates in a day?”

Mira doesn’t spare her pity as she presses the button for the highest floor in the building, ignoring the faint hint of a whimper coming out of Rumi’s mouth as if someone’s twisting her arm. “Eight – you’re on eight. We’re taking the helicopter for your ninth.”

The elevator doors open to the rooftop and sunlight leaks and welcomes the both of them as if there’s something to be bright about, and Rumi’s frown deepens as they approach the helicopter that does little to drown out the same sentences the men have earlier echoed to her that’s reverberating in her head like an annoying song. From beside her, Mira’s lost in her own briefing as she goes about the ninth person’s background as if she’s summarizing a report from accounting. With all the restraint in the world not to jump off Honmoon’s building, Rumi presses her head against the helicopter’s windows, fingers cradling her head as if it will rid her of the incoming headache that’s making itself known starting from the nape of her neck.

“…an only son to the Ahn family.” Mira continues as she hands the tablet over to Rumi, which is met by a hand held high as if in surrender and deflection.

Kang Rumi sighs the longest one for today, and prays that Celine loses interest in her dramas to stop her hyper-fixation on wedding bells and husbands who make great dumplings after a long day.

The cityscape under the moon’s pale stream of light screams of exhaustion pillowed by deadlines, and people shuffling to head home. Kang Rumi sits back on her chair like a woman ready to resign out of the ridiculousness she had been subjected to, and regains her seat by the office like a queen on a throne of paperwork and moved schedules. Her mind is numbed by small talk that’s circled on university degrees and professors, differing voices in their own faux tenors a symphony she wants to forget as she tries her hardest to skim over the budget proposal that’s been left untouched due to Celine’s shenanigans. Mira, like a phantom, sits across from her, legs crossed and mouth formed into a thin line as she summarizes each date like it’s a revision waiting to be sent to the board at the earliest convenience.

“Mira-ssi, can you summarize the report from sales regarding last quarter’s projections and actuals?”  Her voice is fine-tuned and steady despite the annoyance that’s been ever present since the morning, eyes trained on her executive secretary, hoping for anything but dates and cleared schedules to come out of her mouth.

And just like this morning, Mira disappoints.

She adjusts her glasses from the bridge of her nose as she slowly peels away her gaze from the screen of the tablet over to Rumi who is exasperation personified. “I’ll tell you on the ride to your tenth date.”

Rumi hisses like a cat that’s been petted against her wishes – all fangs, claws, and fur. “I thought we had the last one earlier?”

“That was the ninth, Sajang-nim.” Mira corrects her as if she’s about to declaw a feral cat, and collects her purse along with Rumi’s. “No helicopters this time.”

Helicopter or not, Kang Rumi finds all of this all the same – a perpetual headache that keeps on giving.

Kang Rumi exits the vehicle like a murder waiting to happen – slacks pressed to the straightest, stilettos enunciating calves underneath it like a complex but beautiful word, and a vest that has no business clinging onto a dress shirt that elaborates all the right curves despite its straightforward purpose. Her lips are pressed into a thin line dressed in crimson as she enters the Italian restaurant like it’s a business meeting, and spares no onlooker any glance as if their gazes are inevitable. Each methodical step, each click of her heels is a curse and a plea for the night to be over – a lament of aunts demanding grandchildren as if it can fix global stocks and international sales.

“Kang Rumi,” the host says her name like it’s a general fact that should be known and guides her to the table Mira booked – farthest into the restaurant, angled just by the exit in case this one ends in three sentences the least.

She crosses her legs against another once she’s seated, and presses the heel of her hand once more on the side of her braid like it’s the only thing that makes sense before taking out her phone from her pocket. She unfolds it to Mira’s clipped email of the quarterly business report she missed, and goes over the projections for the next fiscal year like it’s a newspaper article and notes several optimistic numbers that aren’t backed by the sale’s actuals from the third quarter. A profanity tickles her tongue from keeping it swallowed for too long, one she dismisses with a sip of tea as she writes a bullet point that targets Director Choi’s incorrect numbers and projections far removed from reality. The advertisement did little to the company’s ROI based on audience sentiment from marketing that’s reflected on sale’s numbers, the trajectory going downwards by a hitch, falling behind the budget to generate it – so, she notes, this should have been noted down as a lowlight and countered with an action plan to replace the advertisement if it’s not producing enough clicks that lead to purchases.

She fights off a scowl that’s trying to make a home on her features, and silently wishes for Celine’s tyranny on her love life to end so she can focus on the company and avoid it from bleeding money. And if a spreadsheet or a poorly executed quarterly business report isn’t enough to convince her, Rumi’s determined to find out what it will be.

Jinu enters like a catastrophe waiting to happen – blond streaks, a mesh and cropped shirt that should be illegal in this weather, leather jeans that look more like temptation than functional, and a smile that’s too saccharine it might as well be molasses. He saunters over to the table like a peacock serenading a different species of flock – wings flapped and footsteps too melodic for an entrance that lacks music, entirely the opposite of men who waltz in that smell like honey, smoke, and ego. He ignores the chill that runs up his spine, and chalks it up to the weather as he takes his place adjacent her like a pawn that’s not exactly a pawn, but a king ready to announce defeat right at the beginning of the game.

He takes note of her purple hair and her face that’s an undercurrent for no nonsense, and thinks that even under the circumstances, she’s attractive and exactly his type.

Too bad.

He extends a hand that’s adorned with too many rings like he’s born to do this, and he puts in a grin that’s more mischief uncontrolled than managed. “Jin Ah-Bin – nice to meet you, and who might this sexy lady be?” He drawls and aims for her to wince; she doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Kang Rumi,” she says it like it’s a threat as she lifts her gaze from the screen of her phone, and offers him nothing but a schooled look he attributes to that one teacher no one ever really liked in high school. She folds her phone, and disposes it inside the pocket of her vest and holds out her hand for his to take like it’s a business meeting.

He wastes no time and hands her a business card with a flare of arrogance, and a hint of caramelized cotton candy that reminds her of pastels and arcades. She takes it and pockets it the same way she does her phone, and hands him hers unperturbed. Jinu finds the whole exchange a tad disappointing, but chalks it up to chaebols who are excellent in going from a game of chess to checkers.

“Sorry for being late,” he says as he leans forward, allowing her to catch a glimpse of his nipples through the fabric that might as well be tissue from the lack of decency it provides. He catches a slight raise of her brows at this as she leans backwards. Jinu thinks this should be easy.

“It’s fine,” she replies, masking the disappointment in her tone. A part of her had hoped that he wouldn’t show up so she could spend her time reviewing the reports that have now piled up in her inbox, but of course, fate had other plans. Despite this, she would be lying if she didn’t find herself a little bit amused when he turned up looking less exactly than the men Celine had in mind for her.

He screamed trouble and drama, and Rumi’s found herself intrigued like she’s seeing a proper idea to globalize Korean cuisine for the first time. None of the theatrics – straightforward like a wrecking ball that promised confetti.

Jinu finds disappointment in the glint in her eyes, and decides to dial it up further. “You’re a saint in patience.” He says it like it’s a compliment and kicks the table by accident, but entirely on purpose. “Oh my God, did I startle you?”

A reply almost tears itself from her lips before it’s forced to be hushed by his babbles like he’s knocked a newborn’s head on the counter. She watches him with bemusement lift his leather shoe to coo at it before she tears her attention from him to attend to a text message she’s received to save her from whatever this is. She’s got to give it to Celine for finding a circus as eligible bachelors.

His prattling fades into the background – a blur of unintelligent phrases strung together like he’s reassuring a kitten he accidentally kicked – as she fixates on Mira’s text about a report from finance that needs her immediate approval by tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, I received a text from work – you were saying?” She asks as she pockets her phone back, and provides him her undivided attention. Jinu feels like she just moved her knight to take ahold of his pawn – one of the three that he has left.

He waves her off as he scours his brain for anything that he can think of before settling onto the reason why he’s worn something so revealing. He pushes up his chest like he’s showing her diamonds just in time for her to pick up her tea, and loads his pistol with bullets he’s sure she won’t be able to dodge. No one likes men who flaunt cosmetic surgery like someone asking for a stranger to subscribe to their OnlyFans.

“I was just asking Samantha and Rachel to calm down.” He says like the names are of his friends, and is met with furrowed brows and a tilted head. He times the next sentence with her sipping her tea to mask her confusion, and thrusts his chest to get the light to catch the pink of his areolas before shaking them to further his point. “Samantha,” he gestures to his left pectoral then to the right, “Rachel.”

She sputters at her tea like a car’s hot oil that’s been met with water, and flusters a deep shade of crimson as she looks at his nipples staring back at her – rising to attention due to the cold. “They…” she trails off as she recovers and wipes her mouth with a napkin, and shares his gaze as if she wasn’t just introduced to his man boobs (?!). “…look very nice.”

“Thank you! These babies are a million won each.” He says it like it’s the truth, and shimmies like the very movement will scare a cat like her.

Rumi schools her features back to the same one she’s held, and nods as if she’s appreciating art. “I think they’re worth the investment.” She says in that tone of hers that bordered in between interest and neutrality despite the eccentricity. Perhaps, this is a good break from the same resumes she’s received from the others who talked about passing on good genes, and keeping the family line above par.

Jinu on the other hand tries to fight the frown that’s attempting to ghost his features when she moved her bishop to yell, “check” and decides that the only way to scare her is to act like a man that’s only looking for a body to warm a bed for tonight. He trails a leathered foot up her leg, and watches her face closely that only morphs into mild surprise. He considers it as a win.

“Why don’t we get out of here and book a hotel? Breakaway from formalities and find out how compatible our bodies can be?”

Jinu’s ready to yell and declare, “checkmate”. He doesn’t know Rumi’s about to declare war.

He feels like a toddler throwing a tantrum as he throws the back of her head an exasperated look, frustration and confusion intermingling into one another. He watches her from the lobby exchanging pleasantries with the hotel receptionist, and thinks about any logical reasons why she wouldn’t just give this up. Unbidden, the thought of sharing a room with her, and an image of her naked and beneath him comes to mind, and he thinks, maybe it isn’t so bad – she is his type after all.

“Focus, Jinu,” he whispers to himself as he erases the idea like it personally offended him, and tucks the image of her purple hair free and loose behind her shoulder in the darkest corner of his mind. “Think of the eight hundred thousand won.”

Rumi pockets the hotel keycard in her breast pocket, and watches him from afar with a hint of interest, head tilted, wondering how far he’ll take the shenanigans and if any of this is his true nature. She saunters to him like a woman with a mission, but is stopped in the middle of her tracks by a woman who has his arm twisted all the way behind him like she’s determined to pop it out of its socket – well then.

“How dare you sleep with my husband!” The woman yells, her voice a shrill that pierces through the hotel’s pristine walls, smearing it with a sin Rumi’s unsure if Jin Ah-Bin is entirely guilty of.

A part of her wants to continue watching and call it a night, but something about him has intrigued her so much that she’s found herself crossing the distance to pry them apart. The woman sneers and buckles under her hold; Rumi keeps her gaze level and terrifying.

“You shouldn’t be throwing around accusations like that.” She says as she rights Jinu’s arm as if it’s been dislocated and casts him a look. “Are you okay?”

“It’s not an accusation if I have a photo!” The woman argues back as she shoves them a photo of a man wearing exactly what he’s wearing, hand in hand with another man in a suit he knows costs more than his parents’ house. Damn you, Abby, and your straying models who wear the exact same clothes.

Jinu clicks his tongue in the back of his teeth and grimaces. “That’s not me. Anyone can wear the same thing.” He argues back, but is peeled away from the brewing altercation by Rumi’s firm grip.

“It takes two to cheat.” She says it like it doesn’t matter and pulls him away from the scene of the crime he’s become a suspect to, and takes an exit like a storm after the casualties.

Whilst Jinu thinks it’s impressive, he’s unsure why this hasn’t shaken her, and thinks she might be desperate enough to marry and avoid being a spinster. Or maybe it’s for the money and the reputation of Abby’s family, he thinks, but whatever it is, his needs are greater than a chaebol’s and uses this to his advantage as he takes his place beside her.

“Takes two to cheat,” he claps his hands as he grins up to her like she’s just presented a devastatingly smart quote. “You’re good, thank you, but you know, I do like men and women.”

Her unflappable expression annoys him.

“So, I don’t think this will work out.” He finishes off just in time for the woman from the hotel lobby to exit the premises and spot him once more. His eyes widen at the threat of his arm being pulled apart from his shoulder, and walks backwards with hurried steps. “Thanks for saving my ass though.”

Rumi watches him run like a man being chased by a hen with amusement, and makes no attempt to call out as the woman from earlier attempts to catch him. Mira pulls up just in time and narrowly avoids Jinu from being run over, and she has to give it to him for maintaining pace despite the circumstances.

“Where’s Ah-Bin-ssi, Sajang-nim?” Mira asks, and Rumi gestures towards the peculiar man from afar finding safety in a taxi fast enough to elude the woman’s claws.

Mira follows her line of sight and notes the faintest of smiles curving up Rumi’s lips that’s unrelated to a good sense of judgement at work and PR, and catalogs this as a win.

Chapter Text

The business card looks at Jinu with a smirk that’s in the shape of gold calligraphy, and words that scream “Honmoon Corporation” and “Kang Rumi, CEO”.

His throat feels dry. He feels like he swallowed sand and slept through it, and now there’s a construction crew using the build up as concrete to permanently shut his throat and his window to explain.

Damn you, Abby.

Jinu’s world blurs in technicolor, and in every multiverse, Kang Rumi is seated at the head of the table, firing him with only a lift of a brow, and a deliberate wave of her hand to motion for security to cuff him. A scream makes a home in his throat that’s muffled by a pillow he’s been wringing too tight for the past few minutes, wrought by the discovery of her business card that’s been wedged between his wallet and a book he kept and had long forgotten. He screws his eyes shut in an attempt to flush the thoughts away, and presses the pads of his fingers on his eyes as if the blood and muffled light would rewrite this sudden upturn of his fate into something more palatable, and easily ignored – like a fact he’s desperate to chase away with an eraser.

And just how he discovered that he went on a blind date with the president of the company, Kang Rumi emerges in his thoughts unbidden with that face that’s ever glossed in neutrality. In this sudden horror film he’s submerged in, she’s holding a whip that ironically matches her purple braid, Indiana Jones in her own right as she slaps the weapon against the table to get him to attention. An imagined audience laughs as he jumps like a lion who suddenly lost its roar, and he brings his declawed paws up as if in surrender. This reminds him of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and somehow the crossover makes it even more tragic, and at the same time bizarre in all fronts.

“Checkmate, Ah-bin-ssi or should I say,” her imaginary momentum is broken by a smirk flitting across her lips, and Jinu feels like an animal hunted and haunted, backed to the farthest corners of the jungle. “Shin Jinu.” Kang Rumi says his name like it’s a curse to be passed down like generational wealth, and Jinu hears himself muttering apologies to his imagined children and grandchildren.

A guttural scream escapes from his lips that borders between tragedy and comedy, one that’s immediately shushed by his mother’s palm against the door like it’s a profanity said without held breath. He starts like a car that suddenly remembered how to start seconds delayed after the ignition’s clicked it to a revival, and his forehead falls on his desk by his bedside with a loud and unceremonious thump. He ignores the pain, and thinks, maybe that would wake him up from the nightmare that he’s now living in.

“Aish – shibal. What is wrong with you?” Shin Jin-Hwa screams in that tone of hers that has each word accompanied by a tut, and a click of her tongue behind her teeth. Jinu recoils in himself – at the absurdity of it all, and the inevitable conflict he created all because he needed eight hundred thousand won to placate a neighbor Jin-Sol pissed off. “You’re going to scare our customers screaming like that – have you lost your mind? Come down and help us prepare the chickens.”

He hears each imaginary cluck of the chickens like they are only made alive to ridicule him and the situation he’s pushed himself into once with open arms, now with crossed arms across his chest like a shield. He mutters a chain of profanities, all aimed at Abby, before telling his mother that he has something that needs to be dealt with – a faux situation at the office at this time of the evening. Shin Jin-Hwa answers with a rant that’s more cursive and empty rage before it fades to her footfalls, and Jin-Sol muttering that it’s unfair to make their only daughter work when Jinu’s very capable.

“This is your fault, you brat.” He whispers to himself as he dramatically hangs his whole body on the back rest like he’s melting against it, and to the floor and throws his arm momentarily in abandon across his face. “I’m going to end up working here until my dying day. My career is over.”

He babbles a goodbye, a flying kiss, and manages a wave into nothingness before he dials Abby’s number like his life depended on it; because, in this battlefield he went to blind, it does. He grips his phone like it’s a lifeline, and each trill is laughter from his imaginary audience where the ha-has are elongated and enunciated like a punchline. Jinu’s patience is running thin, and for a second, he sees a white rabbit holding a pocket watch, jabbing a fluffy pointer finger to each tick with the words, “time’s up” spoken in bunny language.

This is ridiculous.

The way Abby answers the phone is ridiculous as well – like a phrase that’s adorned in bells, completely self-satisfied like the heavens have opened up for him. Disgusting; Jinu wants to burn his cathedral down. He reflects Abby’s annyeonghaseyo with a doomed hello and says a trilogy won’t be enough for the anthology of his demise and career trajectory. He knows he’s being dramatic; he just doesn’t care when Kang Rumi’s imagined heel is pressing on his chest like it’s a crime to breathe.

“Calm down,” Abby says, and it’s ridiculous how he manages to space out the syllables like it’s a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Jinu pretends to shake it off, and pouts into nothingness like the whole world spinning is an affront.

“Calm down?” Jinu says it in several octaves higher as he stands up from where he’s sitting and moves to take the jacket from the clothes rack by the door. At this rate, if he keeps screaming, his mother is bound to come back and drag him downstairs – calming down or cooking fried chicken are options he doesn’t look forward to choosing.

“Okay,” Abby replies with a patient like a saint, like a groom who left the bride from the altar, and Jinu hates him for it. “Calm down now, then panic over samgyeopsal?”

Kang Rumi sits on her chair like she won a chess match – fingers sitting across and in between one another, elbows supporting her contemplation like it’s worth celebrating over.

From across the room, Executive Secretary Cha Mira watches her with a spark of curiosity as she juggles the iPad on her hand like it’s a hot plate. Like a mis-en-scene panning towards the place after a hard-won battle, the starlight leaks through the glass to ceiling windows like a spotlight, a strong entendre that paves way to an idea and triumph. Moonlight casts on Rumi’s face like it’s an armor and an adornment, shining the smug smile on her face into existence. At this angle, Cha Mira thinks that Rumi looks terrifying in a way that would evoke the cane from Celine to use as her final resort to temper the weather that her niece has started again. Mira can feel the headache rising from the back of her neck, and already seeping through her temples.

“I already cleared your schedule for tonight for one date that is feasible, but it’s in Japan.” Mira breaks the victory Rumi’s already celebrating in her mind with Celine’s incessant request like a knife piercing through glass – agonizing to the point she’d wish it would cut to the chase – and she waits for the retort that always comes.

This time, she’s met with a wave of a hand that’s more of a conductor asking the orchestra to quiet, and the atmosphere thins and becomes pregnant with anticipation. Rumi tilts her head just enough to get the amber light to highlight the way the corner of her lips is curved in a silent display of a war that’s won. “No need.”

“You know how Chairman Celine – “

“I’ve decided to marry Jin Ah-Bin.”  Kang Rumi waves her flag like she’s calling for a celebration, and Mira feels like it’s a glass shattering that’s left her in complete perplexion.

Mira blinks at her, eyes a display of confusion and surprise behind gold rimmed glasses that she adjusts as if that will give her clarity. “You said it ended in a disaster.” It’s more of a question than a statement that coaxes a self-satisfying smile from Kang Rumi’s lips.

“That’s the reason why I’m marrying him.” Rumi says as she frees her hand from the clasp that’s more of a prologued stance of victory, and settles them at the back of her neck like she’s daring Celine to counter how her queen had cornered her king. “All I have to do is to get married, is that correct? This shouldn’t be an issue, and the Jin family will be a great asset.”

Kang Rumi swivels her chair like she’s a knife cutting through, and faces Mira who’s pinching the bridge of her nose as if to prepare herself from the impending chaos. “If that’s what you want to do. I was growing tired of going to places, anyway.” She says, mumbles the second sentence to herself as she brings the tablet down the visitor’s couch.

“I want you to contact aunt Celine and Jin Ah-Bin’s family. Let them know my ring size, and I prefer a marquise cut.” Rumi says like she’s firing instructions to the board on how to localize their mandu and hotteok products without peeling a page from the globalized ones that went out. Mira finds it amusing despite the ridiculousness.

“Yes, Sajang-nim,”

Abby laughs like Jinu’s life is the best sitcom TVN has ever decided to air.

Jinu’s eye twitches, but finds laughter in the spaces of the sentences he’s crafted to retell the night – all humor despite the recent discovery. He waves the tong with cooked beef wedged in between as he’s recounting the time he’s decided to make a run for it, and how he broadcasted infidelity and his desire to participate in rooms that aren’t just one couple and one gender. Abby laps at it with tears in his eyes, laughter the only thing touching his lips apart from the sundaes and samgyeopsal shared in a tragedy that now seems more like overreaction after loud contemplation.

“Bravo, bravo,” Abby says as he claps his hands together, an applause that’s very much warranted after the final curtain call that’s just lettuce, smoke, and differing levels of conversation from the people at the snack bar.

“I have made you into someone that’s completely the opposite of marriage material.” Jinu says as he stands, and makes an effort to bow like he’s the best actor, best supporting actor, scriptwriter, and director all in one, which makes Abby almost sputter out his soju.

“Suck that, appa!” Abby hoots with a closed fist held high like he’s evaded all blind dates moving forward; what he and Jinu don’t know, this is the calm before the storm.

Abby’s phone trills like it’s thunder in a thunderstorm, and he prepares himself from his father’s admonishment that he can’t care less about as he stands to take it outside.

“Maybe he’s right,” Jinu reassures himself as he eats the sundae off the metal chopstick, and momentarily tries to find calmness in the way the smoke disappears into the exhaust. “What’s the likelihood of a mere employee running into the CEO – zero. I was just being dramatic.”

Abby comes back like he’s drenched in rainwater, and kissed by lightning – a disaster, and a ball of rage that’s more tantrum. “Jinu,” he starts as he pockets his phone, and looks at his best friend like a mother would when she’s on her last straw of patience. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” Jinu asks with a tilt of his head, completely and peacefully oblivious.

Abby hisses like a cat that’s been left out in the rain for far too long. “Why does Kang Rumi want to marry me?”

Just like that, the imagined audience is back with their harrowing laughter.

Monday evolves into a haunting child of the weekend – all pressure and the hangover of Abby’s mess.

Honmoon’s lobby is a cacophony of Monday manic, security badges beeping, and a flair of quick steps to boast faux eagerness tinged with weekend hesitation. Jinu finds himself weaving into the usual air like he does – a smile perched as if Monday is the best thing that’s been created and at the idea of drafting a proposal Director Yeo will defend with a hint of pride that can never be missed. Abby’s self-imposed imprisonment is catalogued at the farthest corner of his mind as he whispers reassurances to himself like it’s a prayer to God, to Buddha, or to anyone who’s willing to listen.

Submerged in his own self-satisfaction and the promise of work, he strides into the lobby like Mondays should be afraid of him – hands deep in his white coat and a cadence attributed to a workaholic that deems projects like they are sugar instead of cortisol. He crosses the area like a man who can walk on water as he lifts his badge ID with his pointer and middle finger like he’s manifesting a great day of oblivion.

He scans it, only to be met by a red light and an angry beeping rejection that’s made to shatter the illusion of sunshine on a rainy day. Jinu schools his features as he tries again, and the turnstile laughs at him as if he’s a joke with its loud, red rejection.

“Associate Director Gye Zoey won’t let me live this down if she’s first upstairs,” Jinu mutters under his breath with just the softest touch of panic as he wipes the card on his sleeve like it will solve the issue.

Maybe praying for reassurances was wrong; maybe the gods hate him.

Jinu tries again, eyes widened at the turnstile as if that will get it to behave, only to be met with another angry red light.

“I hate you,” he mutters to the security badge as if it can hear him.

Maybe he’s asking for it; maybe the universe just hates him because just as he’s about to ask the security personnel for help, Executive Secretary Cha Mira’s voice breaks the panic like it’s glass and turns it into a mess of shards on a mattress.

“Sajang-nim,” everything else that comes after that fades into a whirlwind of panic, and the desire to be anywhere but here as Jinu shields himself with his coat and walks backwards like a man deranged.

Legs looping into one another like a shaky needle leading a thread, he dives into the Monday manic in panic, and ends squarely, sorely on his ass – a picture of a graceless escape from CEO Kang Rumi’s imagined grasp. A masterpiece of chaos – one leg upwards, the other bent painfully, and a slipper soaring too high as if it had wings, ejecting as if it’s deliberate and lands on a perfectly crafted purple braid as if it’s a plane landing on an airport.

Jinu winces at the way everyone collectively held their breath before they scour to find what they wanted to see most – Kang Rumi’s stunned expression or the perpetrator’s face that’s white as a sheet. In this angle, him on all fours, he thinks that there is really someone out to get him.

“Sajang-nim,” the honorific is shrouded with a gasp as Secretary Cha takes in Kang Rumi’s expression – a perfect blend of mortification and rage that’s then split by blood trickling from her nose as if the blow isn’t insulting enough. “You’re bleeding.”

Rumi takes the handkerchief Mira offers as her eyes find the slipper just shy by the turnstile, and takes it with fingers shaking in rage borne out of humiliation. Jinu, a man who’s more of a YouTube video that’s been buffering for minutes, watches the head of the company and subsequently his blind date look at him like a predator singling out its prey. His pulse jumps, and he swallows just in time for Rumi to jump over the turnstile like it’s nothing. Behind her, Secretary Mira yelps and pushes a turnstile that won’t give.

“Sajang-nim,” the yell is more of a flurry of pink panic as Secretary Mira asks a security personnel to let her out, and whispers to herself in frustration, “everyone will see.”

Jinu, with all the delayed synapses of his nervous system, finally registers what’s happening and scrambles to his feet to run from the woman that’s more lioness prowling than a CEO, and exits to take precedence in the fire exit as if the flight will wear out Rumi’s anger.

“You!” She screams from the bottom of the stairwell as she watches him take three steps like a madman, and decides to follow, slipper in hand. “Stop!”

Her voice echoes in the empty space like it’s crowding over him, and Jinu squeezes his eyes shut as he debates climbing two more flights or pushing into the office that will be soon marred by chaos. He hears her footsteps like the stilettos are nothing but thunder and bites the bullet, thrusting himself into the eighth floor as if it’s the most logical choice. Rumi runs after him like she’s a cheetah and he’s a gazelle, and easily tracks him down by the sound of the door and the ping of the elevator.

“Good morning, Sajang-nim Kang Rumi,” the onlookers greet with hesitation, and she ignores them as she breezes into the elevator that’s about to close and stops the door with a slender leg.

Jinu thinks he’s about to die.

“Sajang-nim,” Jinu says, the word sandwiched by a wince as he bows his head and rests it on the elevator walls as if the metal can save him from her scorching glare that can replace the sun.

Rumi flattens the palm of her hand on the side of her braid, disciplining strands that are still perfectly in place as she holds out the slipper like it’s a gun. “Why did you throw this at me?” She asks like it’s the bullet being released when she pulled the trigger, and Jinu curls into himself further. For a man half her height and incredibly bulked, Rumi thinks it’s comical.

“I didn’t mean to,” his voice comes out small as he turns away from her in attempt to conceal who he is.

“Then why did you run?” She asks like she’s curated his answer, and rejected it.

Jinu swallows. “You scared me.”

Rumi tuts as she presses her palm again against the side of her braid, hand resting on hip, her next word taking shape in her lips before being shot down by the sight of his ID – Shin Jinu.

“You’re the researcher behind the vegetarian mandu,” she says as if she didn’t just give chase, and trapped him like a predator ready to feast and tear him apart.

Jinu perks up at the mention of his proposal that was never approved, and straightens himself like he’s about to talk about his first-born child. He looks head on, but the smile that’s borne out of passion and hard work is clear as he talks about how he arrived at the idea in the first place, and the cons and pros.

“But you didn’t approve that, Sajang-nim,” he says as he looks over his shoulder to look at her then immediately regrets it when he remembers that he’s trying to hide who he is.

“Just because I didn’t doesn’t mean it’s a bad idea,” she replies coolly, but with a hint of respect as she reaches for the elevator button to press her floor before handing Jinu his slipper. “Be careful; and I look forward to your other proposals this fiscal quarter, Jinu-ssi.”

“Yes, Sajang-nim.” Jinu replies as he presses the button for the tenth floor, and after minutes being spent in a suffocating atmosphere, the elevator moves and makes it quick as if it’s the universe’s way to apologize.

Jinu exits quickly like she might change her mind, and dramatically bows and mutters a string of apologies before disappearing into his shared office space with the rest of the team.

“What’s the likelihood of a mere employee running into the CEO – apparently one out of a hundred, and I’m just unlucky enough to be in that ratio.” Jinu mutters to himself as he enters the room, and ignores Associate Director Gye’s retelling of the mystery employee who threw a slipper on the CEO like he has a death wish.

He will stave off praying for now if this brings him exactly the opposite of what he’s asking for.

“Why are you so late?” Zoey asks once she’s done lamenting over CEO’s who look totally killer jumping off security turnstiles, and hounding the culprit like she was robbed.

Jinu partially ignores her as he finally takes a seat in front of his computer. “I tripped on my way here.”

Chapter Text

Monday flutters through the usual bustle like it has some place else to be. Time melts like it’s butter in the face of its madness as Jinu’s vision tunnels on a particular project he has been keen on presenting despite the unorthodox approach. Fingers glide through the keyboard, the click and clack penetrating through the atmosphere, and taking over the quietude that settled after the initial chaos in the lobby. From time to time, he will elicit a sigh as he sinks further into it; a man with only one goal in mind – finalize this on time, and convince Director Yeo to hire Ha-Ri after their chef was unceremoniously fired due to bullying and racism allegations. He cracks his fingers by each knuckle, tilts his head to get his spine to pop before he is typing again – the world blurring before him; his coffee turning three degrees colder.

The sunlight leaks through the slats of the curtains, dancing against his jaw in a warm embrace as though to highlight the tiny expressions in his face that made up his determination. Brows furrow from time to time as he whistles out an exhale that is only meant for him to hear, words being strung along as if on paper is the only place it has to be; Google glaring at him before it vomits a thousand articles about Ha-Ri that only included accomplishments sans blemishes. A satisfied hum comes next as he clicks on an article, saves it, and attaches it like affixing a Michelin Gourmand Bib. With a tilt of his head, he studies her features – the delicate caress of a lone strand of hair on her chin, the soft creases of her eyes, and the smile that has always brightened up days even when it has been submerged in thunderstorm for quite a long time. His heart thrums a careful but loud beat, and he catalogs that to seven years of yearning that he tells himself is better tucked in the safety net of friendship than anything else.

There had been moments where he thought it could have transformed into something more, though – a gentle and accidental brush of a hand, eyes that lingered too long and too much, words that were almost said, but never escaped lips. There were moments – moments that were then quashed by the existence of a college girlfriend. He told himself – still tells himself that he is comfortable watching her be happy, even though at times, he did dream of being with her and ruining the friendship – like a few days ago when he expected a confession on his birthday, and instead received two tickets for MeloMance; one for him, and a future, potential someone – another door slammed shut in front of his face.

Jinu shakes his head as if willing the memory away, and the way his heart made a small tug he knows is more a rift than anything else. He blinks away the memory and focuses on fixing the proposal, and tells himself he is not doing this to get her close, but because she is competent, and they needed a competent chef in the middle of a crisis. He is being Honmoon’s hero, and nothing else, he says despite tasting the saltiness of the lies through to his teeth. He washes it away with coffee, grimaces then resumes typing like this will save him from his thoughts, and his silent judgement.

He had thought of confessing then, but then there were so many things that were happening that it did not seem right no matter the situation. And then, she got a girlfriend and he assumed she did not swing both ways, until she was casually dating someone else when she was at her lowest – back when Yoora had decided that distance was too much and let her go. He wanted to – even Abby coaxed him to, but he thought, it just was not right to confess to someone who was clearly in a relationship. He argued that she needed comfort, which Abby countered with the fact that she was not looking for a shoulder to cry on – regardless, Jinu thought then, it felt wrong.

He clears his throat in an attempt to break himself from his reverie that’s spiraling and spiraling, and clicks on the floppy disk icon to save the document, and to also save him from thinking too much about Ha-Ri and every missed opportunity he can barely count now with his fingers alone. He sends the file to print before stretching his legs, and decides that the perfect accompaniment for this bitterness is a shot of the pantry’s coffee that is surprisingly bad for a company manufacturing and developing really good food.

Associate Director Gye says something that gets Baby to laugh for a good five minutes – an anecdote about how President Kang looked in pursuit of the perpetrator and how crimson in the face the person was. Jinu ignores this as he stretches again before sparing Director Yeo a glance that is unmet until he is rising with his clipboard to his usual meeting with the board. It’s a silent plea, one that is only spared by a tilt of his glasses and then he is off as if the chaos that is Baby and Zoey is not something to be concerned by.

“You make us look like we are lazy,” Associate Director Gye Zoey pipes up as she throws Jinu a crumpled piece of paper he just knows Yeo will chastise Zoey for. He rolls his eyes at her.

“I just really want to get this done sooner,” Jinu replies as he stretches his smarting back for the first time in the day, and while his spine thanks him through a few joints popping, his chair laments like the act is an offense to ergonomics. He ignores it.

“Lunch?” Baby pipes up just as he is rising from his seat with a yawn escaping his lips that are always occupied by either a pen or a lollipop.

Jinu shakes his head. “I promise to meet Abby,”

“Your loss,” both pipe up as they pile out of the room like chaos personified, and Jinu gives the printer a once over before deciding to walk to the café a few blocks away.

Monday is not off to a great start; that much is true for Jin Ah-Bin as his father drills in what he has called the “wedding of the century” in his mind like it is something to look forward to. It started with a wakeup call that was merger talk, public proposals, engagement and wedding rings, and which color and type of suit will make him look like this is what he wanted while simultaneously making his pastel pink hair pop like it is not already. He had grumbled through it all, told his father that he was not interested in picking a diamond ring for Kang Rumi, and stole what little sanity he had left by saying that he had an early meeting with the makeup team. His father yelled at him, of course, which was drowned out by the car’s engine and a carelessly thrown out goodbye.

Zipping through the early Seoul traffic borne out of hustle and people wanting to make miniscule but big differences helped him cling onto something that’s not just his sanity and desperate attempt to escape family traditions. The day was bright enough for him to find solace in models who forgot their blockings, and spoke the wrong word in front the camera – director’s problems, but also his considering this the seventy-seventh take and the makeup team was growing tired of making them look flawless after multiple reapplications.

Abby was adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves when his phone buzzed to notify him that he has received a text message from the future he is running away from – Kang Rumi. He frowns like it is the only thing he knows, which earns him a string of apologies from the model and a whispered, “I will do this right this time, I promise.”

He just waves the model, who looks like a leaf shaking terribly under a hounding breeze, off before choosing to ignore the text and opens his conversation with Jinu and types like this will save him from the shackles he considers marriage. He turns away from the set lighting that makes his eyes bleed, and turns around after telling the team that he is going out for lunch as this does not seem like it is nearing its completion. He needs air, and air sucks when it is manufactured and when he is contemplating if disappearing into the face of the earth is the only solution for this predicament. The director barely gives him a thought as he screams, through gritted teeth and barely contained anger – “take seventy-eight.” Abby takes that as his cue.

Seoul in afternoon is bright and eager like the souls who were earlier captivated by the nine to five are finally finding themselves after mountains of paper work, coffee intoxication, and office politics. Abby weaves through it easily, a man on a mission – to clear his head, and find the right words to say to convince Jinu to reject Kang Rumi once again, knowing the typical opposition considering her revelation as his company’s CEO. Abby crosses his fingers for good luck, breathes in through his nose, and decides that a soda will help him clear his head.

The convenience store’s doors slide open and welcome him in a cold embrace, a chime of the bell announcing his entrance to no one but a mother and her daughter, and an attendant who seem to be more a part of the virtual world than here. His eyes zero in on the Chilsung Cider and he grabs it like it’s oxygen, and swiftly attempts to head to the cash register in three strides until the kid from earlier decides to become an obstacle. A pen skitters against the fabric of his white trousers in a squiggle, and he almost drops the can. Thankfully, he does not.

“Joesonghabnida (sorry),” the mother’s eyes widen in horror as she bows and proceeds to scold her daughter, and tells her to be careful.

Abby waves this off as he crouches to their level and takes the pen that is uncapped. He levels his gaze with the toddler who is all white ribbons, curls, and wide eyes and tries to school his features into something that is between firm and approachable. He straightens the portion where purity is stained with a faint line, and decides to draw on it like it is the most logical thing to do in this situation.

“You should be careful running around in these,” he says as he spares her a look, and she gives one that lacks any recognition of what she just did as expected for a five-year old. He does not let that deter him. “You could ruin someone’s very expensive pants.” He adds before deciding to relieve the mother’s distress by completing the faint line with a leaf, a stem, and a sorry attempt at a rosebud. “Ta-da! What’s this?”

The kid tilts her head, studying the drawing that is upside down like it is a masterpiece, purses her lips with her brows furrowed before her eyes light up like she has figured out the last piece of a puzzle. “Poop!” An innocent pride washes over her features that is met with Abby’s perplexed expression as he reassumes his height, and caps the pen.

“Poop?” He asks, incredulous, with a shake of his head before handing the kid’s mother the pen. “It’s a flower.”

A stranger passing laughs softly, but Abby ignores it and reassures the woman that there is no need to pay for drycleaning as he did more damage than just the initial line. Laughter and polite exchanges are shared before Abby thrusts himself into the outside, soda in hand and his wallets and car keys forgotten.

The warmth envelopes him immediately as the noise of Seoul in mid-day announces its existence. He makes it at least five strides far from the convenience store before his brain clues him in that in the midst of entertaining a miniscule artist, he has left behind his keys and wallet. A curse passes his lips as he shakes his head, and turns on his heel only to be stopped once again by another obstacle. This time, it’s a woman with a hair that is a darker shade of pink than his, bordering almost red just like the roses and carnations he imagines surrounding her when he met her startled gaze that then softened into the tiniest curve of a smile. He feels his heart flutter and reach places he was not familiar before, his brain short-circuiting and finding her as its focal point.

“Joesonghabnida,” they both say like they are in a chorale, and she ducks so she can retrieve his can of Chilsung Cider, the same one she has clutched by her left hand.

Abby knows he is colored in crimson as he studies the way her hair gently sweeps and meets the sharp edge of her chin to soften it, and struggles to find the right words to say. His chest tightens, and he swallows the knot that’s forming as she hands it to him like this is nothing, like she does not feel the same way, like she has no idea what she is doing to him by just existing.

I found the love of my life, he thinks to himself as she spares him a tilt of her head and asks if he is alright. Before he can muster up the courage to ask for her phone number, he remembers his wallet and keys left abandoned at the convenience’s store counter and makes a run for it like he was not just rendered useless by the way she held him in her eyes.

He is so done for.

Jinu teases him about her in the café with a tilt of his head, and that glint of mischief in his eyes. Abby finds himself not minding as he thinks back to the way she handed him the soda, and how their fingers briefly touched. His heart still thuds in the tune of her even by just the thought, and Jinu almost laughs at how ridiculous he looked swooning with a straw in his mouth.

“As I am saying,” he says as he feels the heart-eyes dissolve into that of seriousness, and edges closer to Jinu with a face that is pleading topped with a pout. “I need you to tell Kang Rumi that you are not interested in marrying her because I want to marry her.”

“You know I cannot do that. It’s too risky,” Jinu says and waves him off as the pursuit Kang Rumi had just done earlier comes to mind like it’s asking him to remember. Jinu shivers, frightened. “She chased me this morning because of a slipper. What if she recognizes me?”

Abby whines. “You said she did not see your face.” He points out as he frowns at her.

“Still; I cannot lose my job.”

Abby rests his forehead against Jinu’s shoulder before he meets his eyes. “Remember when I hit my head on a rock when Do-Yun called you a chicken legs and bocked in front of everyone?”

“Yeah, we thought you were going to die.” He says as he stands up to go behind Abby, and check the crown of his head for a scar. It is all pink hair now. “They called you bloody-face for the rest of the school year.” He says as he smoothens Abby’s hair with a palm like he is petting a cat before realization dawns on him. “Okay, fine.”

Abby brightens up and tells him more about his office siren in loud pink hair. Jinu acknowledges it by demanding to be the best man.

His reflection in the elevator mirror screams at him – platinum blond, piercings in places he knows his mother will fuss and cuss about, and eyeliner that screams emo and grunge at the same time. The car ascends quickly, and the elevator buttons serve as a countdown to his impending death. Jinu swallows and crosses his fingers just in time for the elevator to ding, and announce his arrival. He hurriedly occupies the seat overlooking Seoul’s cityscape; the lights blinking back at him like stars, and silently, he makes a wish. He wishes for wealth, and wishes Kang Rumi is not as desperate.

The rich file in like they are excited to throw their money away, and Jinu tries to find distraction in guessing how much they are worth. The clock ticks like it is loud enough to drown out the bustle of the restaurant, matching the thud his heart is making whilst the minutes stretch on. He runs his fingers through his hair in irritation then stops halfway when he remembers he is wearing a wig, and opts to fiddling with his phone instead.

She can’t even arrive on time.

“She asked to meet, and she’s late?” He mutters to himself, oblivious at the ominous figure in purple braids a few tables away.

Like the Imperial March, Kang Rumi clears the space as if she is Darth Vader and is the dark side herself – heels clicking like it’s a death sentence in Morse code. Jinu notices the shift in the air, and lifts his gaze to find Rumi with her phone pressed to her ear, and a look of displeasure on her face. She approaches him without an apology for being punctual, and steals his phone in a pace that almost sends him to cardiac arrest.

“You asked me to come here just to jump scare me?” He asks as he dramatically presses the heel of his hand on his chest, and feels his heart screaming at him – abort, abort, abort!

Rumi ignores him as she dials her phone number in his, and calls herself to save it like this is not short of weird, like this is entirely normal and he is not trying to break up with her.

“If we are getting married, you should have my phone number saved in all your phones.” She says as she hands it back to him, and all he can do is blink up at her. He swallows the words he wants to say as he follows her with a look that demands explanation. She does not give him the satisfaction, and instead adjusts her cuffs as she takes her seat with a leg hooked above the thigh.

“I am not marrying you,” he says as he gives her a disgusted look he hopes is convincing enough so he can be on his way.

However, what he does not know is, Kang Rumi is a dog with a bone, and she is not unhinging her jaw anytime soon. She bites firmly and leans casually, her purple hair catching the light, and making her look more ominous. Jinu swallows and feels the fight coming.

“And, why not?” She asks as she raises a perfectly manicured brow at him, and if he squints, he can see a smirk forming in her lips that is currently swathed in cherry pink lip gloss. He ignores how tempting they look, and meets her eyes instead – a standoff is a standoff; he cannot lose. “I am good at everything. And when I say everything…” She trails off, finishes the sentence with a wink that is so self-assured Jinu can feel the heat creeping at the back of his neck.

Before his brain short circuits, Jinu tries to wrought with a sentence he can counter that with, and finds something that will hopefully obliterate this chessboard they are dancing around on. “You are not my type.”

Rumi blinks at that as she presses a palm on her hair as if to school it even when there are no purple strands escaping the braid. Good – at least there is ego that he can shatter. “Excuse me? I’m everyone’s type.” She says, perplexed as she takes offense.

Jinu catalogues this as a win as he rises from his seat, and turns to exit. “You can’t even show up on time.”

He bolts, taking advantage of Rumi’s flustered and clearly offended state, and exits – a short-lived victory that’s celebrated by giggles that are then stomped by the sound of her heels behind him. Please.

“What are you, from the nineteen hundreds?” She calls back just as he whirls around quickly to tell her off, not a brain cell in sight as he miscalculates the step and almost plummets to his death. A part of him thinks it will be better to get her off his back, but the thought is rid off its possibility by her hand catching his arm mid-fall.

She pulls him back and rights him like he weighs nothing, and he stills at the touch of her breath on his ear as she leans close. “I told you I am good at everything.”

Jinu colors crimson again as he shoves her off, and turns back to the stairwell. “I am not marrying you. Delete my number, you pervert.”

“Pervert?” Rumi says the word carefully as she tests the syllables in her mouth and frowns, but before she can say anything, he disappears from her like a ghost of raven hair from the stairwell.

“What are you going to do now that Jin Ah-Bin has rejected you again, Sajang-nim?” Mira says as she looks at Rumi through the rearview mirror, and studies her.

Rumi sits poised in the leather chair, head-tilted to face the window, her face honed in determination as she idly traces her jaw with her pointer finger. “I am still going to marry him; eventually, he will realize that this is the best choice for him.”

Mira studies the way the streetlights color the slight crease on Rumi’s face, and shakes her head at the stubbornness. Of course, she should have seen that. A reply teases her lips but is stopped short by a car door opening just right before the traffic light turns green. A series of mutterings follow as she watches Jin Ah-Bin cling onto Rumi as if he did not just call her a pervert earlier, ringed fingers digging at her olive jacket as he crumples himself into her like a leaf. Rumi does not allow herself a smirk as she follows his line of sight.

“What are you doing?” She asks after a beat, and Jinu looks at her like she is the transgressor. “I thought you don’t want to marry me?”

Jinu blinks back up at her before letting her go, and straightening himself. He clears his throat, swallows, looks at Executive Secretary Cha Mira with a look of disinterest that he hopes is not ruined by anything crimson. He smoothens his palms against distressed jeans.

“Yes, I came here to tell you that.” He says as if he did not just open a random car door because he was trying too hard to hide from Ha-Ri. “I do not want to marry you and I do not want to see your face ever again.” He says with a huff as he wraps his fingers around the door’s handle, and pushes it open to make his exit.

Kang Rumi tilts her head, her face schooled in that neutral expression he hates and only broke once. “And why not? If you are rejecting me, I need a reason why.” She challenges, and Jinu seethes.

He whistles out a sigh as he makes note of the honking behind them that they are deliberately ignoring. Rich people are a menace. “Because…” he trails off as he tries to find a reason that she will not deflect easily and takes note of her head, and how it reminds him of – “Because you look like a Tyrannosaurus rex.” He says and fights off a laugh before he opens the door, disappearing into the night like he did not just call her a tyrant lizard that was obliterated by meteors million years ago.

Rumi blinks like she has just been dumped cold water, and Mira does nothing to stop herself from laughing as she finally drives to the relief of the traffic behind them.

“I do not look like a T-Rex.”

Chapter Text

Seoul in the evening folds itself into two – one part for slumber, and the other as an umbrella for those who are still awake at this time of the night. Silence filters through the gaps, combined by the wind’s soft croons, faint honking and tires squealing in the asphalt, conversations by people who are unfortunate enough to work nights or overtime, and laughter from those who are embarking in late evening adventures from one convenience store over to the other. The moonlight sheds what little it can as it watches the people bustle and prepare themselves for the dawn that it is to come in a few hours. Buildings and their lights twinkle in answer to the stars as others resign into the confinement of slumber howbeit late it is – curtains being drawn, office and house lights being shut to make way for darkness to filter through the night. The city yawns, and yet, Kang Rumi remains alive and focused on a multitude of articles under open tabs twinkling they might as well be the stars themselves.

As silence basks through the night externally, out of her floor-to-ceiling windows, her television remains a contrast as David Attenborough speaks in that distinguishable accent of his about the life before homo sapiens and homo erectus, and how the world used to be shaped to accommodate creatures that have long expired before man. The light from her laptop shines against her facemask, reflecting a blocker from National Geographic’s website after she has clicked on “sign up” just to know more about the Tyrannosaurus Rex; a sore attempt at gatekeeping information before it crashes due to a poorly kempt server and directs her to nothing but an apology about their accounts’ system issue, and a dead end that leaves her more frustrated than she is when she first heard the insult.

She throws her hands up in the air as frustration eats away at her drowsiness, the teddy bear ears that are sitting atop her headband responding as though they are alive as she flicks a lone strand of purple hair to the side. She clicks open a separate tab and brings her iPad by her folded leg, and looks at a photo of her taken for a branch’s opening in New York, zooms in on her head, and traces it with an Apple Pen, the streak red as if to mark the rivets of her braid cinched tightly against her skull. She looks at the photo of the dinosaur from Britannica’s article about the tyrant lizard, makes note of the fossilized head, and mentally argues that she sees no actual resemblance except for the fangs she has for incisors that is more a genetic defect than aesthetic. A groan escapes her lips just as David Attenborough shifts the discussion over to how intense the Tyrannosaurus Rex was when it was alive, and exceptionally good they were at hunting because of their senses and vision; and Rumi cannot believe she is staying up so late in the night just to deduce the comparisons like it is a market trend that is too complex.

Professor Paul Barrett from the Natural History Museum takes control of the conversation, front and center, to discuss about the evidence of how big the species’ eyes were, and Rumi thinks that Jin Ah-Bin must be blind to think that she has the same ones that are facing forward, and are as round as grapefruits. She throws a pillow just as they claim that the Tyrannosaurus Rex is the most effective predator because of its binocular vision, and ignores the fact that maybe he meant that she is meticulous, and nothing gets past her.

She looks back at her laptop, and sees the abandoned, pixelated Tyrannosaurus Rex looking back at her sideways, her high score for the Chromesaurus Rex blinking at her as if this will help her understand the comparison better. It does not. However, it did help her release her fury towards Jin Ah-Bin’s unwarranted statement earlier by pretending that she is overcoming the cactus and running towards him with claws unsheathed. She briefly entertains the idea of chasing him down as a Tyrannosaurus Rex towards a corner, a dead-end, where all he can do is be on his knees, begging, pleading for his life with a string of apologies. A smirk flits across her lips at the thought, and she decides to turn off the television, and bring hell over to him come what may.

She picks her phone up from where it has been seated for the past few hours, and opens her contacts to send him a quick text message to communicate her displeasure and demand an explanation.

Kang Rumi: Meet me at the café tomorrow; I demand to know why you thought I looked like THAT dinosaur.

The text message is sent off with a loud whoosh in the silence just as she abandons the article from Live Science, where it discusses that the Tyrannosaurus Rex had a skull of one-point-three meters in length with the longest being at two meters with a thick width to deter deep scarring from bites. She stares down from her glass windows like the streets have personally offended her, arms crossed as she tries to understand what could possibly be the factor that has caused her to be rejected in this extremity. She never had this problem before when she was in New York, and the blind dates she has been forced to attend; they were always fawning over her, clamoring, wanting a piece of her that is unwilling to give.

Is this what they felt like when she was firm in the decision about not wanting to be involved with them?

Rumi walks back to her laptop, and closes it before she visits uncharted territory, having more questions than answers tucked on her sleeve. She peels off the facemask that has been sitting on her face for more than an hour, turns off the lights, and calls it a night with Jin Ah-Bin’s sudden rejection after asking to bed her still a mystery she needs solved.

Sunlight peers through poorly shut blinds like it is an unwanted guest; shining an obstructive light against eyelids shut like it they are screwed together, a not-so gentle poke or a jab asking the one in slumber to embrace the morning. An alarm is forgotten, and unheard as footfalls heavy carry themselves to his door. It opens loudly as Shin Jin-Hwa heralds the morning like it is asking to be announced, and enters his room just like the sunlight did earlier on – like an uninvited guest forcing to be welcomed.

Unbeknownst to Shin Jinu who has been deeply tucked into the embrace of sleep, and lulled by the offended face of his CEO for more than the required eight hours, he is about to be forced awake with the reality of tardiness and a scorned mother. She wraps her fingers tightly on his exposed ankle, and pulls him off the bed with a loud thud, causing him to sprawl unceremoniously at her feet with a skewed sleeping mask of a magpie exposing one eye and eyelashes crusted by morning dew.

“You are late.” Shin Jin-Hwa announces with both hands resting on her hips, the scent of chicken, eggs, and caffeine following her.

A yawn escapes his lips as he forces himself upright and slides off the sleeping mask, the light and his mother an unwelcome reality check, his consciousness barely catching on to what is happening. In his mind, he still is in the middle of conversation with Kang Rumi where she chases him down the streets of Seoul, looking like she has shrunken her arms in place of claws, scales, and a head that looks more like an extinct species than human. He remembers screaming for his life, and asking her to stop haunting and hunting him down, that he will give her everything including his first-born child, but not his hand in marriage; that she has the wrong person and this is entirely the actual Ah-Bin’s fault.

Shin Jin-Hwa throws a slipper with cat ears flat on Jinu’s face, and it feels just like the first taste of bad coffee on a Monday – bitter and painful enough to wake him up.

“Stop day dreaming, and get ready. It is seven in the morning.” She says and that alone causes him to get out of the recap his brain has been torturing him, sending him scrambling to pick up his phone to check the time himself.

Fifteen minutes after seven in the morning screams back at him in bold, cerulean numbers just as Kang Rumi’s unread text message sits idly, and menacingly below it. He swallows hard – the knot making it hard to breathe before he rises to fix himself with what little time he has in his hands. He groans as he quickly moves past his sister, who says something about him coming home late, and expecting a lady to close up shop when he is very capable himself. He ignores it, lets his mother deal with her and forces himself to bask in the cold water. It slides off his taut shoulders like icicles, and he hisses like a cat that is unceremoniously watered like a pot of flowers.

Mentally, he counts the time he has left before Associate Director Gye Zoey comes in, and calculates if he has enough time to stop by the bakery to bribe them with coffee, pastries, and conversation. He decides against it, and before the clock screams twenty past seven, he is already putting in a black shirt he found somewhere, a white coat, and some jeans that look about alright. He waves his parents goodbye, Shin Gwi-Ma behind the stove and saying something about coming home early, whilst his mother laments a long lost lover that could have saved her from poverty. It is tasteless, but it does little harm to his father as he fixes her a look and volleys back a tell-tale argument, “you act as if you sold your soul to me”.

Whatever his mom’s reply is lost into the wind as he boards the taxi he is fortunate enough to flag the moment that he exits his house. He counts how many won he has left, and figures that he can make do with coffee as usual for waking up too late to celebrate a victory too early. As they round up a corner, he allows himself the luxury of checking his phone, and facing the demon or Tyrannosaurus Rex that is Kang Rumi, CEO of Honmoon Corporation and a thorn on his side that just would not budge.

Kang Rumi: Meet me at the café tomorrow; I demand to know why you thought I looked like THAT dinosaur.

The text message from a few hours ago screams at him in black ink, and a sense of dread slides all the way down to his spine like a cold finger. He shivers despite the sunlight screaming that it is twenty degrees out today, and decides to forward the message over to Abby in a plea to get this sorted before he loses his job over a measly eight-hundred thousand won. He does not want to embrace poverty and public humiliation with open arms. He will never hear the end of it from his mother, and he is sure his internal demons will have something to latch on now.

Honmoon Corporation’s building stands in the middle of the city like it is asking to be acknowledged, looking down at him like its glass windows are eyes, judging him and counting his days as if it is sentient. He ignores it, and swallows the trepidation as he dials Jin Ah-Bin’s number and prays that he picks up and that Kang Rumi is early today.

The gods ignore his prayer like they always do, and he questions which god he has offended for this to be torture.

She steps out of her vehicle like a dagger ready to cut his throat – purple hair tightly woven into her signature braid and looking threatening under the gleam of the sun, silver and silk suit hugging her form in a way that is accentuating how lethal she is, and heels that are sharper than a knife powering her through early morning. Behind her, Executive Secretary Cha Mira follows as though they are cut from the same cloth, and Jinu stalls to watch them disappear into the building before he comes in.

The air welcomes him like it takes pity on him, and he kisses the idea of being on time goodbye as he watches them wait for the elevators from the turnstiles. He silently curses Abby as he walks towards the stairwell, and tries to psyche himself into partaking an early douse of cardio with nothing but air as breakfast. He takes the first flight of stairs with a certain determination at staying hidden as he dials Abby’s number again, reassuring himself that it is only ten stories, which equals to twenty flights of stairs that he has ran before. No big deal.

Abby answers the call on the fifth ring with a certain urgency in his tone, the set he is currently in background noise as the director yells at another model for a missed line. “I thought everything went okay?” He asks as panic is laced in the words like it has no place else to be, and Jinu can just tell he has his face sitting on his palm.

“I thought so, too.” He replies just as he climbs the tenth flight of stairs, voice already ragged, and calves smarting. He checks his watch for the time, and signs off his peace for the whole day as it edges five past eight. By this time, Zoey is already egging Mystery – Director Yeo on. “Look, you have to meet up with her and tell her that you are not marrying her to get this over with.”

Abby groans before pulling away from the phone to talk to an intern, instructing him to reapply makeup on the same model. “Do I really have to?”

“Unless you are willing to pay for my funeral once she kills me then fires me, then you do not.” Jinu replies as he rests both hands on his knees, takes a deep breath and looks at the last flight of stairs as if the doors of heaven have just opened up.

“She will not kill you,” he replies and Jinu can sense Abby rolling his eyes.

“Dude,” Jinu says as he opens the door, and heaves out a loud sigh for all the tenth floor can hear. Minjun from the food product development second team waves at him, and he returns the courtesy with a small smile as he prepares for admonishment. “She chased me up eighteen flights of stairs in stilettos like it is nothing. I am pretty sure she is capable of killing me.”

“Fine, fine,” Abby relents, knowing that getting Jinu to do his bidding further will just end up in catastrophe, and prepares himself from the fight he is going to have with his father. “But after this, you are helping me find a new place to live. I am pretty sure my father is going to throw me out.”

“Sure,” Jinu replies just as he ends the call, and enters the battlefield. Director Yeo fixes him a gaze through his lavender tresses, Zoey already shaking his head, as Baby just pops a bubblegum as if to ridicule his tardiness. Before anyone can say anything else, he starts, “I was finalizing the report last night.”

He hands Director Yeo the folder with Hari’s accomplishments in it, and for a moment, the corporate world and him are at peace.

Later, Director Yeo fixes him a look from across the room as he flips through Hari’s portfolio, Zoey and Baby ignored as they talk about proposals, and what can seem otherworldly in a corporation that has managed to modernize it all. The sunlight slips through the barely cloaked windows, and Jinu finds both his hands’ pointer and middle fingers crossed as if he is wishing on a star. The sound of paper on paper fills in the gaps of conversation he does not want to listen in on before Director Yeo parts his lips to say something that tilts his world upright in the way he has been asking to since he first woke up.

“You scrubbed through all her records?” He asks as he stops shy by one of the articles he has affixed last night – the one about Hari’s award from a competition in Nagoya where she was recognized for her controversial Korean and Japanese fusion.

“Yes, Yeo-nim.” Jinu replies as he stands up, and assumes the place behind Director Yeo and peers at a photo of Hari staring back at him – all bright smiles and unrequited love. Jinu fights the smile that is asking to be reflected back.

Director Yeo tilts his head to the side, and turns to face him, studies him through his long bangs and red glasses, and hums. “Why her?” He says as if he is hinting at something else; hands clasped in the way he does when he is trying to assess something despite already having decided.

Jinu does not let this get through to his head as he smiles at his superior. “As you can see, she is very competent – “

“There are far more competent chefs in this industry.” Director Yeo counters with a tilt of a head, and a brow raised.

This does not deter him. “Well, part of the factor is the fact that we are well acquainted with her. We already know how she works, which will save us time from the adjustment period. All of you had noted how excellent she is when we first had her over for a trial project.”

Director Yeo nods in consideration. “That is true.”

“Apart from that, she knows how to make the proposal I am planning on making for kimchi ravioli. I know it is unorthodox, but she has proven her competence when it comes to these types of fusion cuisines that usually draw backlash.” He says as he points Director Yeo back to the article where Hari is seen shaking hands with a Japanese ambassador with the brightest of smiles.

Director Yeo hums for a moment before he shuts the file close, and pins it on his clipboard. “Okay,”

“Okay?” Maybe the gods are on his side.

“Okay – and I want the proposal on my desk by Wednesday.”

The afternoon sun sits glumly atop clouds like it knows what is about to happen; it tilts, and hides in cumulus and stratocumulus clouds as if it is bracing for impact, the shine broken down to pieces, enough for people to think that there might just be rain despite the lack of humidity. People weave through the crowd like they are not yet done with the day despite the fact that the clock has already struck five – paces quick, bags drawn like they are armor, chatter reduced to overtime, paper work, and bosses who want more than what they can offer.

Jin Ah-Bin checks his reflection for the rearview mirror as he waits for the traffic light to turn green and motion him to go, and seek the impending death of a ruse that lived too long than both he and Jinu liked. Knuckles turn white on the steering wheel as his mind flits over to the eventual conversation he will have with his father, and wishes that things are different and a marriage is something he can have at his own pace. His mind briefly brings him over to the sight of the beautiful stranger with darkened pink hair, and he swoons just in time for the traffic light to change.

He turns the corner reluctantly, and hopes that Kang Rumi is reasonable enough to accept an apology and a rejection that has nothing to do with her looks, but simply at the fact that he is smitten by someone else. If he tries to aim for her to unlock empathy, maybe she will understand enough to unhinge her jaw at the bone that is Jinu he has thrown, and is now asking for it back.

The café waves at him in faint yellow lights, and arrays of green bushes amongst cars lined up beside it. He slows down as he spots a perfectly empty lot, and turns the steering wheel to get it to park, but just as he is reversing, a car that was not there earlier causes him to hit on the breaks too harshly. The tires squeal from underneath him, and finds himself cursing, his temper already rising at all the inconveniences he is forced to face.

He exits the car like a nimbus cloud is hovering above his head, and studies the rear end of his vehicle like it has been hit. He hears the other driver follow suit, heels clicking in a careful, practiced tone before the sound stops just shy by him.

“You should be very careful. You should not be tailing someone who is obviously going to park.” He rambles on as he clicks his tongue, and notes the one centimeter left between the two cars before collision.

He rises to assume his full height and turns towards the other with both arms folded across his chest, but the vexation dies as quickly as it arose once he sees the familiar pink hair he has been dreaming off. The frown turns into an easy smile, and he extends his hand for her to shake.

“You know what, it is okay. There is not even a scratch. Just be careful, you know.” He rambles, and notes that her facial expression softened, despite remaining neutral. She takes his hand to shake, and Abby almost loses parts of his brain at the contact; despite this, he politely releases it at the third shake. “Jin Ah-Bin,”

She tilts her head as her brows furrow, but before she can say anything, a woman in silver steps out with an evident frown etched on her face. “Jin Ah-Bin?”

Moonlight washes over the street in its pale silver streaks that are muted by neon lights, and lamp posts. It gazes on humanity curiously, accompanied by strings of starlight as it takes in the commotion in the early wakes of evening. People move through in slowed paces, in directions that is either home or somewhere else to be. Conversation lifts the silence and mingles with the cacophony of cars zipping through traffic, talking about long days and night outs to fold the day in a perfect end.

Shin Jinu weaves through the crowd like there are clouds underneath his feet, the sound of skipped steps against pavement echoing as he clutches the approved portfolio in his fingers. His heart thuds against his ribcage like he has just ran a marathon, the words ready to escape his lips in a spill of good news and proposals.

He rounds the corner of Hari’s restaurant like a man refined, and even allows himself to smile at strangers passing by. Dimmed lights greet him, and he briefly wonders why as it is only ten past eight, shy into the dead of the night. Regardless, he pushes the door open, only to be met by a glass breaking that sounds more like his heart meeting its demise.

She is standing by the threshold of her kitchen against the counter; head tilted back in laughter as a woman cages her in with the same amusement in her eyes. Happiness fills the empty restaurant; a happiness that assaults Jinu’s as a form of reality check that causes him to stumble back to flee into the night. He weaves back into the crowd like a messed up running stitch, blinded by a melancholy that is all too familiar. Tears prick at the corners, but he forces himself not to shed them as he throws himself into the bus station to wait out the weight that is pressing on his chest as if it is daring him to breathe.

The image haunts him like it is intending to put him in a grave, and Jinu chastises himself for allowing himself to hope when it had been clear that her preference will never be him. He presses the heel of his palm against his chest as he tries to will away the pain of coming in second place, and tells himself that Hari owes him nothing and that it is his fault for never confessing for seven years.

The wind picks up its pace like it knows, and it messes with Jinu’s resolve further as it carries the file from his hands and scatters it to pieces like the way his heart is as of the moment. A curse escapes his lips, then two as he scampers to catch each pathetically, and tells himself that maybe the gods are out to get him.

Silently, the moon agrees with him.

Silverware clink against plates as conversation from multiple strangers ebb and flow in the café. The moonlight leaks from the glass windows in a faint silver that looks more like a spotlight than anything else, intermingling with the amber lights of the room like it is setting a stage. Tension sits atop the atmosphere like it is jeering at them with arms folded, and Abby wishes that Kang Rumi’s gaze is a butter knife instead of a dagger against his throat.

He adjusts the collar of his shirt for the third time, and opts to loosen his tie to get himself to breathe. All the while, Kang Rumi stares at him with obvious distaste that is lethal it might as well be a registered weapon. From her side, Cha Mira glances at him with a hint of disappointment and an equally lethal gaze that causes his heart to break into pieces; because in this ruse he chose to find love, he lost it in the blink of an eye.

He clears his throat. “I did not do that to ridicule you,” he starts just as the heat becomes all too suffocating, and idly pushes the glass of water with his index finger. “I just do not want to get married in the way my father has in mind.”

Kang Rumi intertwines her fingers together and leans forward like she is in a game of chess and about to say checkmate. “I should tell your father then of what you have done.” She says in that tone of hers that suggest that the statement is made to be threat so cutthroat she might as well demand his firstborn.

Abby swallows, steals a glance and courage from the stars then looks back at Rumi who is watching her like a predator with its prey. In this light, he thinks, Jinu is right; she might as well be a Tyrannosaurus Rex by the way her gaze tunnels at a sole target with that twinkle in her eye.

“I will do anything for you not to do that. Just let me tell my father that I have messed up.” He pleads like he is pleading, on his knees, for the judge not to bring down the gavel and call the guards to throw him to the wolves. “Again, we did not mean to make fun of you. I am sorry; I just do not want to get married.”

He is frantically waving the white flag, and Kang Rumi plucks it from his fingers and sets it on fire. For a moment, he mistakes that Cha Mira is looking at him with a flash of pity that is gone too soon. He swallows the knot that has doubled its size in his throat.

“Who is he? Is he your friend?” She asks with a tilt of her head that looks a lot like a lioness deducing how she will prowl; a predator playing with her food.

“He is just a model I hired in my company. A no one.” Abby supplies, but the way his tone wavers is something she latches on and she eyes his shirt.

“Looks like a friend to me; he was wearing the same shirt you are wearing now.” Kang Rumi states before she rests her back down the char, legs crossed with the same look in her eyes that has him running his fingers through his hair.

Despite the dread, he still finds the energy to become offended. “This is Chanel. He was wearing CoCo Chanel.” He clarifies, and she looks at him like she has just taken his bishop hostage and is on the verge of declaring checkmate. In this light, with her head tilted like she is just about to tear him apart, he sees that sparkle underneath the amber.

“I thought he was a stranger – how come you know what he is wearing?” She asks, and he knows it is a trap Jinu will forever hold above his head.

Abby tries to choose his next words carefully. He fails. “Because I hired him.” He supplies quickly, and Rumi almost laughs in his face as she studies her onyx nails.

“Hm,” she settles with a hum before she is looking back at him like she has already decided what is for dinner – him. “Oh well, if you cannot tell me the truth, I am sure your father would love to hear about the trouble you spent just to avoid marriage.”

“Wait, no.” Abby panics as he surges forward, almost grabbing her hands as he looks at her with pleading eyes. If she contacts his father, Kang Rumi would be able to figure out exactly who Jinu is. He cannot have that.

“Or,” she says again, enjoying the way he is squirming. “You set up a meeting with me and that friend of yours. He at least owes me an apology and an explanation for calling me a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Up to you.”

Abby swallows for the umpteenth time, and thinks, Jinu can lie his way through this, right?

Chapter Text

Tuesday comes by like a storm that was missed by the weather report – tumultuous enough to snag at rain coats and umbrellas, and demanding in a way that the wind seeks its next victim. The stress it harrows leaves the onlookers to draw their blinds and seek shelter, whilst those who have no choice, brace it like it is something they have been born to do. The restaurant below is filled to the brim with guests who have decided to take a work day off for a hike, and half filled by workers who decided chicken was the best way to start a hectic Tuesday it can be mistaken as Monday. The ruckus reverberates through morning conversation – sizzling oil hissing like it hated its existence, plates and cutlery being moved around, bottles being rearranged and taken away from its sanctuary in the fridge.

Conversations weave its way through the cacophony just as Shin Jinu juggles plates and a bucket of fried chicken like he is a natural. Sweat clings to the corner of his brow as he waves at his mother from the kitchen, and admonishes her about the way she handles the flock as his own version of farewell. Shin Gwi-Ma sees his son off with a careful smile on his face, and a lecture about showing up his best and smelling like it – that is then waved off by a hand, and a statement that there are worse smells that he has had on him by working in a food company; a little whiff of fried chicken and sesame oil should not be a problem. His father thinks otherwise, but lets him go as he thrusts himself outside, and joins the land of the living as if he was not determined to bury himself alive last night.

The sun looks at him curiously as he marches forward as if his heart was not battered – a hollow of a man trying to blend into the workforce, chin held high, and clinging onto a stack of papers he had slaved away the night before. Seoul in the morning welcomes him with an exasperated sigh as it watches him with the same curiosity as sunshine as he fights off the urge to curl in on himself. His heart has been broken into pieces for the past seven years; what is one more to a thousand?

Beside him, a couple marches the same war forward with linked hands, and he ignores the way his heart sinks as he boards the bus to get away from the reminder. The doors open with a faint hint of mixed perfume and cold air – the scent of shared tragedy an embrace as he greets the bus driver and takes his place in the midst of the crowd. And, as if the universe finds entertainment in his woes, he is welcomed by the sight of couples thrusted into the workforce like they are sending their lovers off into a shared battlefield – hand in hand, heads slotted on the crevices of their neck and shoulders.

Shin Jinu mutters a curse as he counts the won he has left in his mind, and thinks that he should have starved himself for the day and opted to take another cab. What is a dent on the wallet compared to an eternal dent to his lack? Incomparable, he thinks, as they speed away from Jeokseon-Dong, the buildings watching him mentally weep trailing behind like distant onlookers. Like a tragic hero in a Shakespearean play, Jinu lets out a sigh and carves out a dinosaur on the condensation as he tries to find whatever strength he has for the day in the blurring cars in the highway.

Somewhere in the cramped bus, someone excuses themselves as they exit the vehicle like they are stitched together while a weary office worker panics when his phone plays the music through his phone speakers instead of his earphones. The mundane in this way should have been comical entertainment for Jinu, but today, it serves as background noise as the final stone drops in the river, and he is splashed by the cold waters of reality. His phone vibrates just in time as the bus stops to his, and whatever faith he has left, he hopes he does not see her today.

But of course, God does not dwell in the mundane problems of humanity, and he sees purple like he is meant to see it.

A silent curse escapes his lips as he imagines himself being chased down again by the Tyrannosaurus Rex, and weighs the gravity of Associate Director Gye’s non-stop admonishment, and Director Yeo’s tuts regarding his tardiness. He swallows the uncomfortable knot in his throat as he clings onto what little prayer he has, finds his throat dry and wishes he has coffee to mask his trembling hands, before deciding to enter the battlefield Abby created for him.

Folder serving as a shield, he enters Honmoon Corporation like he is asking to be seen, head bowed low like he has personally offended the CEO – he has, but only he, Abby, and the gods know that. Security watches him curiously as he weaves through the morning traffic of corporate slaves, their radios static in the air as they try to deduce if he is a threat or an idiot. When he flashes them a hurried smile and a wave of his security badge, they jot him down to the latter.

“Sajang-nim,” he hears from behind him, and Jinu panics as if he is held on gun point and drops his badge. A curse escapes his lips once again as the hairs from the back of his neck stand to attention – the haunted now hunted. “Chairman Celine is asking me to clear your schedule for today.”

Jinu swallows the lump in his throat as he bends to frantically pick up his badge ID, almost hitting his head on a turnstile. Unbeknownst to him, the Tyrannosaurus Rex he is desperately trying to get away from has her eyes pinned to him as curiosity sets forth like a nagging tooth. Kang Rumi tilts her head to the side to study the spectacle before her just as Executive Security Mira halts her briefing.

Like needles pricking his skin, he feels their gazes and stands up abruptly, slamming his hand against the turnstile and pushes through it, wasting no time for recognition. He is glad the gods have heard him; otherwise, it would have been a painful entrance and a hefty fine for company property damages. However, like he is trapped in a labyrinth filled with jesters, the elevator doors remain shut despite his persistence – pointer finger pressing the elevator buttons as if that can speed up its descent. He keeps the folder housing Ha-Ri’s achievements held high, one eye at the edge to watch the two from afar and the rest of his features obscured.

“That is weird,” Kang Rumi states as her gaze follows him just as she enters, her heels clicking like the final nail being hammered onto Jinu’s coffin. The way he keeps the folder like a shield maintains her curiosity as she furrows her brows and tries to deduce what this employee’s problem is. “Do we have any deadlines recently that I do not know of?” She asks just as Mira files beside her, and by the man who has been on his knees earlier and is now shaking like a leaf.

“No, Sajang-nim.” Mira states, her reply coming above the elevator’s ping and announcement of its arrival. The doors slide open, and the man throws himself into the car like it is a buoy in the middle of the sea.

Kang Rumi hums as she tilts her head to the side, eyes squinted as she tries to look past the folder Jinu has held up high before climbing in. “Must be in trouble with his superior, then.”

“As I was saying – “

“I am not going on any further blind dates until I meet with the actor Jin Ah-Bin set me up with.”

Jinu swallows. The rest of the elevator ride has become his personal hell.

Jinu: I thought you had this handled.

The sunshine slants across the halls of the Jin family household like it takes pity on him; a path shined to highlight the suspension of dust motes – the personification of his despair as he shares a silent meal with his father. Jin Jae-Young wrestles with his pancake as if it is a difficult spreadsheet, face contorted in that expression of his marred by work diligence, false sympathy, and weathered by time spent behind and beside investors and laptop screens. Cutlery against plate resounds and serves as the chosen symphony as the morning tilts forwards, and closer to nine, a few hours shy from the afternoon.

Idly, Jin Ah-Bin checks his smartwatch, frowns at the message hovering above it and asks which god has decided to deliver the news to his best friend before he can explain himself; and vows to be on his knees for the rest of his life just for a sound explanation to end up on his hands so Jinu does not cut him off. The pancake underneath his silverware feels leathery as his mind traverses anywhere but here, eyes taking in the sight of a blue bird that decided to rest on the branch hovering just outside the window. Briefly, like he is a jailbird, he wonders what it will be like, too, to be able to spread his wings with liberty on his side and misses the question Jin Jae-Young has sent his way.

Abby looks back at his father, and blinks once, twice, then thrice as he racks his brain for an answer. Jin Jae-Young presses his lips into a firm line as he chews on his pancake the way he is currently chewing on his son. In this light, with the way his eyes hover behind the lenses of his glasses, Abby thinks his eyes might just about burst out of the frame due to self-inflicted stress.

“When are you dying your hair back to its natural color?” His father sounds the question again as he looks at the pink as if it has waged war against him, and demanding his first born. Abby fights the urge to roll his eyes as he focuses on the plate of abandoned pancakes staring at him with a sad smile.

“Did not think that this is a problem.” He says as he takes a bite – anything to fight off the distaste rising at the notion of being controlled once again just because something did not end the way his father wanted it to be.

Jin Jae-Young gives him a pointed glare that he does not find the least bit of menacing, and purses his lips. “It can help you with attracting a potential wife now that Kang Rumi has decided she wants nothing to do with you – you are too… flamboyant.”

“She did not break up with me because of my hair.” Jin Ah-Bin counters as he whirls fork around as if that will cement his point further.

“It can be one of the factors.”

“I am not changing any aspect of myself to be palatable to anyone.” Abby replies, tone flat, already resigning himself from the conversation he has been trying to avoid ever since he turned twenty-one and the idea of marriage became tempting to his father. “I am going to marry someone because I love them. I do not want to become like a tragedy you and mother became.” He returns the pointed glance towards his father with an air of dismissal as he carefully puts down the fork and knife to stand, and physically leave the conversation.

Jin Jae-Young slams both hands on the table as if it will get him to stand to attention. It does not. “I will not stand for this insolence any longer, Ah-Bin. You are going to those blind dates or so help me God.”

“Or what?” He counters as he is rising from his feet – his queen against his father’s, ready to raise hell fire and call it a day.

“If you will not, then get out of my house.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Undeterred like cliff stones standing still despite waves crashing against over and over, Ah-Bin looks at his father with clear defiance – chin raised high and shoulders squared.

“You will have to hand over my credits cards, too.”

The tapping of the pen resounds in the internal chaos Jinu is stuck within as he fixates his gaze upon the waiter in the café, and momentarily thinks of changing his name and face to escape the impending doom Jin Ah-Bin has set him up to.  Mentally, he brings his phantom fingers up to view, and creates a spreadsheet of his savings to try to balance what he will be left with if he decides to proceed with cosmetic surgery as part of his last saving grace. He can get one of those nose jobs his cousin has had, maybe an eyebrow lift, and a jaw reset that can completely throw him off Kang Rumi’s radar – three million won each, he remembers his cousin boast one Christmas morning, and groans into himself knowing even five years worth of slaving away will not get him as far. Maybe he can just throw himself into traffic, then.

He puts both hands into his face and muffles out a scream, just as a couple enters as if to make fun of all the issues the universe has decided to throw his way. He burrows his hands further into his palms, and curses Jin Ah-Bin for being a chaebol who romanticizes life instead of living through corporate greed. The iced americano he has ordered stares at him with its beady sweat, the dark lightened by the ice, bitterness watered down, and thinks, at least the coffee gets to have a break. Beside him, the waiter debates if it is a good idea to check in on him just as Jin Ah-Bin enters like he is Atlas with all the weight upon his shoulders. Jinu rolls his eyes with a scoff.

Abby gives him a wary smile from afar as he holds up a package as if it can color his entire world differently from the red that it is currently bleeding into. Jinu takes it with a frown, and opens it, only to be met with a pair of clothes that are not his style, and a blond wig he is sure he has seen from one of those K-Pop Idols singing about soda and popping one after the other.

“Thank you, I guess?” Jinu grumbles as he sifts through it, laying all of them on the table like he is an archeologist studying a great find.

“I am homeless now.” Jin Ah-Bin remarks with a huff and a frown, and it is just then that Jinu sees the luggage and the bags he has carried around with him.

“What the hell happened man?” He asks, addressing one of the two elephants in the room with an irritation that is ill disguised as he tries to decide whether to leave the conversation and dress the part first or demand an explanation. He decides a few more minutes will not hurt.

“I finally told him off – so I need a place to stay, and you have a bed.” Abby summarizes, a sense of pride hovering above the edge of his words like he has drawn a sword and his father had no choice but to succumb to his hard headedness.

“Congratulations?” Jinu remarks as flicks a rolled up paper straw over Abby’s way, hitting him squarely by the eye. Abby scowls at him as he rubs the pain away, and Jinu delights himself with momentary laughter. “But I am talking about the whole thing with Kang Rumi – I thought you said you have it taken care of?”

Abby cracks an awkward smile that Jinu knows like the back of his hand – it is the smile of betrayal after failing at upholding one of his promises, and throwing Jinu to the line of fire. Jinu loathes that smile.

“Do not leave me here, Abby!” Jinu yells out loud enough to get half of the café to look their way. Somewhere, a toddler bursts into fits of crying like it is an omen as the mother stares them down. Jinu ignores it.

Abby laughs in that careful laughter of his that shakily enunciates each ha like it is its own word as he rises from his seat with both hands raised. Jinu desperately wants to make a scene as he fights off the urge to throw a chair his way.

“Oh my God, Abby – I will literally kill you.” Jinu says as he reaches for Abby’s sleeve and tugs at the edges.

Undeterred, another shaky smile is thrown Jinu’s way as he glances at his smartwatch then nervously over to Jinu. “She scares me, man.”

“That does not mean you get to throw me under the bus!” Jinu whines, half of the guests at the café curiously listening on as Abby shoves him the clothes and the wig Jinu had taken out of the paper bag.

“You will survive this.” Abby says as he gives Jinu’s hand a squeeze. “Just know that I love you, and you are like a brother to me, and I will explain everything later once you come home. Do not die on me; just lie and tell her why you said that – and also, I am very sorry; she is fifteen minutes away as we speak.”

“Abby – “ his statement is cut off as Jin Ah-Bin disappears in a blur of pink hair like a tornado after hitting its end, leaving Jinu to deal with the aftermath with dread sitting squarely on his shoulders like it is personified. Swallowing what knot has formed in his throat, he retreats to the restroom and ignores the pointed stares from the café patrons.

Jinu thinks he is really in hell.

 This is the skull of one of the most famous dinosaurs, the Tyrannosaurus Rex – he hears David Attenborough say from one of the farthest corners of his mind, his English accent echoing just as Kang Rumi’s heels are against marble as she comes to view, crowned in her purple braid and all its glory and fury.

Something that continues to fascinate us is how good they are at hunting – David continues like he is whispering the narration of Jinu’s demise and the apex predator responsible for it. Jinu feels cold sweat line up the base of his neck to trickle down the length of his spine, and mentally curses Abby for picking a shirt so flimsy he can feel the air conditions torment against his skin through it.

The atmosphere drops by two degrees as she saunters, the whole world stilling as conversations hang by each word, mid-sentence like they are scared she might hear. The toddler from before cries again, and Jinu swears he has seen lightning pierce through cerulean skies despite it being a sunny day. The sound of her heels registers as the crack of thunder as her eyes roam and study the cacophony before her as if she has no time searching for him. In this distance, he can see the insult harrowing at her, and the annoyance of having to deal with something that should have been dealt with point blank. He swallows again and feels as if the shirt has tightened, and asks the gods to put the curse equally on Abby and him.

Key factors of their success were their senses; so how powerful were their eyes, their hearing, and their sense of smell? – David Attenborough continues again, and Jinu frowns just as Rumi finds him through the thick crowd, eyes sharp enough as daggers positioned against the base of his throat. He swallows again like it is the only thing he knows, and tells David who has found temporary shelter in his mind to terrorize him, that their senses as proven by Kang Rumi is powerful enough.

“So,” the words are like glaciers colliding against one another in the Antarctic, and Jinu solely blames Rumi for the tectonic plates shifting as if she is behind it. “You are the scum that Jin Ah-Bin has decided to hire to fool me.” She says, her words as piercing and as dark as the way her suit clings onto her and accentuates her fury.

Jinu tries to find reassurance by literally grasping at straws, and reaching for the watered down iced americano. She does not bat an eye, and instead watches him with carefully encased fury.

“I – yes,” he finds himself saying once the pause stretches, thick enough to bury him whole.

Nails as dark as onyx dance against the marbled table, the clacking sounding more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex’ boastful advances as it circles and corners down its prey. Jinu chokes on his coffee.

“Why did you do that – to humiliate me?” The words are carefully drawn out, but the edge is maintained as if it is as loud as a shout, and Jinu’s shoulders hunch like she just roared at him.

He fights the urge to run his fingers through his hair, and sits back, trying to find reprieve in the back rest, feeling the cold digging on his exposed back as Kang Rumi studies him with amber eyes that look like flames underneath the light. He tugs at the corners of his shirt, trying to find something to do than panic.  “No – I, Abby just did not want to get married.”

“He could have said no,” Kang Rumi bristles as laughter borne out of sarcasm and disbelief leaves her once pursed lips, the red in them making it look more terrifying and cutting.

“I did; you would not take no for an answer.” Jinu finds himself saying, and then winces after he realizes what he has just said. “I – “

“You make it sound like I was desperate.” She counters with the same tone, trying to seem unbothered just as Jinu panics under her gaze and knocks over his bag and sends the rest of its contents on the floor. Jinu thinks it is a metaphor for emotional and mental state right now.

“That is not what I was trying to say.” He says as he scrambles to his feet, and blames his luck on a mirror he placed adjacent his door years ago that then shattered due to carelessness. The chair’s feet screeches as it gets pushed to the back as if someone took a fork and scratched it against the plate, and he winces like his life a theatrical play of a disaster.

With hands trembling due to fear, he collects what little things he owns and shoves them back in his messenger bag only to stop short at the sight of their coupons littering the floor like it bled onto it. For a moment, his world stills as he tries to gather them as best as he can just as Kang Rumi takes one in her hands to study it with an inquisitive glance.

“So aside from being a scammer, you work at a restaurant?” She asks as she studies the pamphlet, the chicken on the other side staring at Jinu like it is burning a hole in him. He gulps and takes it away from her.

“I am not a scammer, and we did not do that to humiliate you. And yes, I work part time for my parents – it is the whole reason I took the job from Ah-Bin-nim. There was an accident – I needed the money.” He says as he folds the pamphlet into four and shoves it in his messenger bag, and prays she does not ask further about him. “If you are looking for an apology, I am sorry if you felt like we were trying to scam or embarrass you.” He says, bowing his head, feeling the heat of her gaze like they are claws.

“How much did he pay you?” Kang Rumi asks just as the family with crying toddler escapes the suffocating atmosphere, the child still in tears as it studies Rumi in curiosity. Below the table, she crosses her legs like she is about to strike a deal with a wave of her hand.

“Eight hundred thousand won.” Jinu states as he looks away, and ignores the way her features that have been then schooled into a disciplined display fury break into laughter. “I know it is not a lot for chaebols like you, but it is a lot for me. Look, I do not know what more you want from me. If that is all, again, I am sorry.” He stresses as he stands up from the chair, and tries to find the wedge he can push himself into to escape this conversation. Kang Rumi simply angles her body, and stretches her leg as if to stop him – the point of her stiletto a barrier.

“An apology is not enough.” She says as she sizes him up like she is about to devour him.

Jinu does not know what he did in his past life to deserve this, and feels the life inside of him wane like she is stealing his soul from him. Did he sell his soul to the devil? Did he sell everyone’s souls to the devil? Or is she the devil herself? He does not know, and he would not like to find out.

“You called me a Tyrannosaurus Rex and then fooled me.” She points out as she instructs him to sit back down with just a look that carries his employment. “I want to know why.”

Jinu feels his brain short-circuit in the way it does when he is face to face with danger as a red flag waves itself arrogantly in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut as he backs down, and asks himself what the lead characters did on Jurassic Park to escape the dread tyrant lizard. All he knows is that they died, and he will die if she will not let this go.

“I called you that because of the braid, and because you are terrifying – it is the first thing that came to my mind when I was trying to push you off. It was not anything personal.” He says as he raises both his hands in attempt to wave the white flag in front of her face, hoping that she acknowledges it.

She decides to incinerate it. Jinu watches the ashes burn, and his future dwindle.

“That does not make sense.” Kang Rumi says as she waves to a waiter, and points to his iced americano, gesturing for two. Jinu feels like he has just been given a life sentence based on the implication and sinks further into himself.

“It does not have to be,” he argues, and his voice cracks at the seams in exasperation as he remembers how persistent she can be when she is desperate for something – like a Tyrannosaurus Rex that has tunned its vision to one sole prey a mile away, He should have seen it coming, and yet, he has stopped running. “It is not that deep – it was just to throw you off.”

“Sure, it is.” She says stubbornly, living up to the name he has affixed her, all teeth around his arm like it is desperate to feast.

“I swear it meant nothing apart from what I just said.” He says again just as the waiter arrives and gives him a look that conveys pity before placing the drinks Kang Rumi has ordered.

She presses the heel of her palm against the side of her braid as she takes a sip of her iced americano, and decides to let go of it for now. “If you say so,” Jinu feels the air return back to his lungs, but before it can fully circulate, she speaks again like she is playing with her food. “What is your name?”

Somewhere, he thinks, one of the mirrors he owns might have cracked and provided him seven more years of bad luck. In his head, he is watching the predator’s head lower to meet him eye to eye and to snarl at him. Jinu tugs at the collar of his shirt again as he feels warm, sweat pooling on his hairline as she looks at him with piercing amber eyes they might as well be lava inviting him in.

“And do not lie to me this time.” She adds as she toys with the straw, arms folded carefully in front of her, nails dancing across the table in rhythmic clacks as if she is writing a lament for his funeral.

“Shin…” He trails off as the threat of honesty looms above his head, and feels as though each patron is watching the scene unfold. In reality, they could not have cared any less. “Jin – “ He bites his tongue, curses himself for almost unmasking himself and stares at a magazine someone reads. A light bulb flashes golden above his head. “Shin Joon Woo – yeah, Shin Joon Woo.” He answers quickly as laughter escapes his lips in nervous bouts, fingers digging around the glass of his iced americano like it is a talisman, which in this case, in his position, anything can be.

Kang Rumi tilts her head as she tests the name in her tongue quietly then nods like she has made a decision. “Alright – Shin Joon Woo; give me your phone.” She says as she lifts her palm up, and gestures for him to give it to her.

Without thinking, he does and realizes a moment too late what he had just done. He feels like he has signed a contract with the devil. “Wait, what are you doing?” But the damage is already done, and her number is already saved like it is a threat.

“Saving my number – do not delete that.” She instructs as she hands it over to him, and he takes it like it is on fire.

“Why?”

“I said an apology is not enough, remember?” Rumi says like it is obvious, like he should have known the trap she has been luring him into. “You have to pay me back by keeping up the ruse – I am hiring you as my fake fiancée. I am not taking no for an answer, unless you want to apologize in cash.”

Oh, she is the devil alright – all fangs and a purple braid.