Chapter Text
The digital clock on the wall glowed in red: 00:00.
An internet cafe that lived solely in darkness, smelling vaguely of disinfectant, stale air — that was all Kim Dokja knew outside of his rental apartment for the past year or so.
Kim Dokja didn't mind.
He had worked worse jobs. Telemarketing, where every call felt like an apology for existing. Data entry in a basement office with fluorescent lights that hummed like mosquitoes. A brief, soul-crushing stint in corporate, reporting to a boss whose favorite hobby was CC-ing the entire department on passive-aggressive emails.
At least here, during the graveyard shift, no one expected him to perform. No one expected much of anything, really. Just that he keeps the instant noodles stocked, restart frozen computers when asked, and exist as a vaguely human presence behind the reception counter between the hours of 10 pm and 7 am.
Not an ordinary job, but he wasn’t trying to impress anymore here.
The cafe itself was a relic. Tucked into the ground floor of a derelict building, several streets removed from the nearest train station, it squatted in the urban landscape like something forgotten on purpose. 24/7 Star Stream, proclaimed the flickering neon sign outside — or it would have, if not for two dead letters rendering it 24/7 St r Str am.
Inside was a modest space. Small enough to fit only fifty stations, but spacious enough to leave breathing room between each unit. There were even a handful of private booths along the back wall. Worn-out wooden plans adorned the floor, which Kim Dokja was eternally grateful for because god, he did not want to imagine how difficult it would be cleaning carpeted flooring.
And yet, people kept coming back.
Most of the regulars were what you’d expect: college students cramming for exams they should have started studying for weeks ago, their desks buried under energy drink cans and desperation. Salarymen who’d missed the last train and couldn’t face going home yet. Gamers with season passes who treated the café like a second address.
And then there was Yoo Joonghyuk.
Booth 49. Far corner of the cafe, partially obscured by a support pillar. Every night, without fail, between 11 pm and 5 am.
Even before Kim Dokja had started working at the cafe, Yoo Joonghyuk had already solidified his position within the space. Two? Three years? Kim Dokja couldn't remember exactly, only that the man held an all-access season pass that had never once lapsed since he'd first walked through the door.
So his manager, Han Myungoh, had made him out to be some sort of legend. Kim Dokja didn’t really care anyway.
Except.
Except Yoo Joonghyuk was interesting in the way a natural disaster was interesting. Something you couldn't help watching even when you knew you should look away.
He was tall. That was the first thing anyone noticed. Tall, with shoulders that belonged on someone who did physical labour, not someone who spent six hours a night in a gaming chair. His face was all sharp angles, with high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and dark eyes that never softened.
In other words, he was a typical handsome man. (Not Kim Dokja’s words.)
Maybe it added to his aura, but Yoo Joonghyuk dressed like someone who had forgotten what colours were. Black jacket, black shirt, black jeans. Sometimes, a white shirt, though that hardly counted as variety.
To top it off, despite his near-nightly presence, he had never once spoken to anyone. Maybe save for when he needed to renew his access pass. Other than that, through the night, his eyes would remain glued to the screens, never looking up except to stretch his neck every now and then.
And Kim Dokja, who prided himself on minding his own business, had started watching him.
In his defense, it wasn’t intentional. Call it boredom, call it idle curiosity. The CCTV monitors at the reception desk cycled through the camera feeds automatically, and Booth 49 merely happened to be among them.
So whenever it appeared on-screen, Kim Dokja’s gaze would linger a second too long.
He couldn’t say when he’d started noticing. Perhaps it was better not to know.
Tonight, Yoo Joonghyuk was playing some kind of fantasy RPG. The glow from his dual monitors washed his face in cold blues and silvers, highlighting the faint furrow between his brows as he navigated what looked like a boss fight. His fingers moved across the keyboard with mechanical precision, devoid of any wasted movement or hesitation.
Kim Dokja, chin propped on one hand, watched him die.
Then watched him restart the encounter without so much as a flicker of emotion.
Then watched him die again.
"You know," Kim Dokja muttered to the empty reception area, "most people would take a break."
As if hearing him — which was impossible — Yoo Joonghyuk's hand suddenly stopped. He tilted his head, just slightly, toward where the camera was mounted on the ceiling.
Kim Dokja could’ve sworn his heart stopped beating then.
Then, Yoo Joonghyuk's phone buzzed on the desk beside him. He glanced at it, swiped the notification away with his thumb, and returned to his game without missing a beat.
Kim Dokja exhaled. He was being ridiculous.
He switched the camera view back to the entrance, then cycled through the other floors. A handful of customers scattered across the cafe, none of them looking like they'd need assistance anytime soon.
He pulled out his phone and opened the web novel he'd been reading. Some regression fantasy where the protagonist kept dying and restarting, trying to save everyone. Typical power fantasy stuff, but it scratched an itch.
His phone buzzed as a banner notification appeared.
Yoo Sangah
Dokja, the rain is getting rather heavy. Are you still at the cafe?
Yoo Sangah, objectively the only normal employee at 24/7 Star Stream. She worked the evening shift, and Kim Dokja had long wondered why someone as bright as her would even associate herself with such a place. But to each their own, he had eventually concluded.
He leaned forward, eyeing the situation through the glass storefront. True enough, rain streaked down the windows, blurring the streetlights outside. Needless to say, visibility was terrible. He vaguely recalled hearing something about a typhoon approaching the city, though he hadn't paid much attention to the details at that time.
As if on cue, another notification banner slid down from the top of his phone.
Emergency Alert
National Weather Service: Typhoon warning is in effect in your area. Strong winds and heavy rainfall expected. Refrain from outdoor activities and remain indoors.
Well. At least the cafe counted as indoors.
Kim Dokja
I’ll be fine.
Yoo Sangah
Be careful! Let me know if you need anything.
He replied with a thumbs-up emoji.
Another message appeared.
Manager Han
Saw the typhoon warning. Probably nothing serious but you can close up early after everyone leaves.
Kim Dokja raised an eyebrow. For a split second, he was almost thankful. Then he remembered Booth 49.
Han Myungoh might as well have told him to just keep the cafe open the whole way through.
Judging by the sudden movement around him, everyone else had received the same alert. Students began packing up in a rush, chairs scraping softly against the floor as they checked out with nervous glances at their phones. Even the salaryman who was snoring loudly just moments ago startled awake, squinted at his screen, swore under his breath, and staggered out into the rain, clutching his briefcase like a shield.
One by one, the cafe emptied.
Until it was just Kim Dokja behind the counter, and Yoo Joongyuk in Booth 49, who seemed to have no sense of self preservation.
Outside, the rain began in earnest.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since, but by then it was already a downpour. Kim Dokja eyed the gap beneath the front door where wind was whistling through. He considered stuffing a towel under it, then decided it wasn't worth the effort.
He glanced at the CCTV monitor.
Yoo Joonghyuk still hadn't moved. Same posture. Same booth. As if the typhoon outside was a minor inconvenience happening in another world entirely.
Kim Dokja sighed and pushed himself up from his chair.
Booth 49 wasn’t that far (the cafe was only so big). But apart from their brief encounters at the reception, Kim Dokja never approached Yoo Joonghyuk. Suffice to say, it felt like he had just crossed the Red Sea. Or something to that effect. He wasn’t religious by any means.
Kim Dokja stopped a respectful distance away. "Hey."
Yoo Joonghyuk didn't look up, but he shifted his headphones ever so slightly. "What."
"Typhoon's getting worse," Kim Dokja said. "You might want to head home."
"I'm aware."
A pause. The sound of keystrokes continued, steady as a metronome.
"...Are you planning to?" Kim Dokja tried.
"When I'm done."
Kim Dokja waited. Yoo Joonghyuk didn't elaborate.
"The buses might stop running," Kim Dokja continued.
"I'll walk."
"In a typhoon."
"I've done worse."
Kim Dokja blinked, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. With such an answer, he didn't know what to do with that. He also didn't know why he cared — Yoo Joonghyuk was clearly an adult capable of making his own terrible decisions.
But Kim Dokja had also spent the better part of his time here watching him through a security camera feed, and some stupid part of his brain had decided that it meant something.
"Fine," he huffed, crossing his arms. "But if you die out there, I’m not collecting your body."
Yoo Joonghyuk's fingers paused on the keyboard. His eyes flicked up.
"Noted," he said with an unreadable expression.
It might have been Kim Dokja's imagination, but he thought he saw the corner of Yoo Joonghyuk's mouth twitch.
At 2:07 am, the power went out.
The cafe plunged into absolute darkness.
Kim Dokja startled hard enough to nearly drop his phone. For a disorienting second, he couldn’t see anything, before his eyes adjusted to the faint glow of his phone screen. He closed his web novel app, switching on the flashlight to maximum brightness.
The beam cut through the dark like a knife, illuminating dust motes suspended in still air.
Footsteps echoed from somewhere between the rows of booths. Yoo Joonghyuk soon emerged from the shadows, his own phone casting sharp light across his face. For the first time since Kim Dokja met him, he looked visibly annoyed.
"Backup generator?" Yoo Joonghyuk asked without preamble.
Good question. Did they even have one?
Kim Dokja rummaged behind the counter, unearthing a dusty manual that looked like it hadn't been touched since the cafe opened. He flipped through the pages, squinting against the glare of his phone. Emergency protocols, fire exits, customer complaints… ah.
Backup power: located in the electrical panel, rear storage area.
Kim Dokja moved towards the back, Yoo Joonghyuk following silently.
The electrical panel was a mess of switches and faded labels. Kim Dokja flipped one, then another. Nothing happened. He tried another combination. Still nothing.
"Nothing's working," he muttered, mostly to himself.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped forward as Kim Dokja shifted aside automatically. He thought that Yoo Joonghyuk looked like someone who knew his way around things. But even after he tested each switch methodically, checked connections and opened the panel to peer inside, there was no change.
Only the frown that deepened between his brows.
“It’s all dead,” Yoo Joonghyuk said at last.
“Well isn’t that great?”
They stood in the cramped storage area, phone lights crossing like searchlights in the dark. The rain was louder now, drumming against the building and filling the silence between them.
Then Yoo Joonghyuk turned and walked away.
It took Kim Dokja a second to realise what this madman was about to do.
“Hold up, where are you going?” Kim Dokja hurried after him, nearly tripping over a loose cable.
"Leaving," Yoo Joonghyuk said, already halfway to the entrance.
Kim Dokja stopped short and looked at him. Then at the door. Then outside, where the wind bent trees at ungodly angles and rain lashed sideways.
Forgoing any semblance of formality he might have had, Kim Dokja blurted out the next three words without hesitation. “Are you insane?”
"I'll be fine."
"You won't."
Yoo Joonghyuk turned back, irritation etched plainly across his face.
"I can leave," he said. "It's not that bad—"
A stray tree branch suddenly flew through the air and slammed into the front door with a sound like a gunshot.
Both of them flinched.
The glass spiderwebbed from the point of impact. The doors shuddered, but held. Barely.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Kim Dokja said, very calmly, "You were saying?"
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the cracked glass. Then at Kim Dokja.
Slowly, he stepped back from the door.
"Fine," he said.
They stood in the dark cafe, phone flashlights creating small circles of reality in the void.
"So," Kim Dokja said, breaking the silence once again. "I guess we're stuck."
Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing.
This, Kim Dokja thought, is going to be a long night.