Chapter Text
Yoo Joonghyuk woke up before his alarm.
This was not because he was a disciplined man.
He was a disciplined man, technically. He woke up at five every morning, ran exactly eight kilometers, consumed a breakfast with enough protein to make a gym bro cry, and stared at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror with the face of a man who had decided feelings were a subscription service and he had canceled years ago.
But that was not why he woke up before his alarm today.
He woke up because the ceiling above his bed made a noise.
Yoo Joonghyuk opened his eyes.
He stared at the ceiling.
The ceiling stared back.
A single drop of water gathered in the middle of the plaster like the universe was forming a thought.
Yoo Joonghyuk knew this thought. He had met it before. It wore many disguises: flat tires, exploding kettles, suspiciously timed pigeons, restaurant chairs that broke only when he sat on them despite being able to carry a small elephant, elevators that gave up on life between floors, and vending machines that accepted his money then dispensed nothing but an offended mechanical cough.
The thought was simple.
Fuck Yoo Joonghyuk specifically.
The drop fell.
Yoo Joonghyuk moved his head exactly three centimeters to the left.
The water landed on his pillow with a pathetic little splat.
He sat up.
The ceiling released another drop. Then another. Then, apparently embarrassed by its lack of ambition, it upgraded from “leak” to “indoor weather event.”
Water poured down onto his bed.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood.
Screaming or cursing at gods was inefficient. Screaming wasted oxygen that could be used for revenge.
He grabbed his phone from the bedside table.
The time was 4:37 a.m.
His alarm was set for 5:00 a.m.
Of course.
Bad luck had never understood personal boundaries. Bad luck was the kind of guest who showed up uninvited, ate your food, broke your toilet, and then asked why you seemed tense.
Yoo Joonghyuk walked to the bathroom, placed a bucket under the leak, then watched as the leak shifted six inches to the right and continued pouring directly onto his bed.
He looked at the ceiling.
The ceiling looked victorious.
“Fuck you,” Yoo Joonghyuk said as he held up a middle finger at his ceiling.
The lightbulb flickered once and died.
Coward.
In the dark, water dripped onto his bare foot.
He counted to five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
This did not calm him down. It merely organized his rage alphabetically.
Today was important. Not normal important, like remembering to buy milk or not killing Han Sooyoung when she sent him twelve voice messages that were all just her laughing. Today was the day of the final presentation for the Star Stream redevelopment proposal, the single largest project his company had ever handled, and Yoo Joonghyuk was the lead architectural consultant.
His client was a private investment group with too much money and too few hobbies. His company had been fighting for this contract for months. The meeting was at nine. The proposal had to be flawless. He had made it flawless. He had revised the visual plan twenty-seven times. He had memorized the traffic flow, the pedestrian distribution estimates, the green space percentage, and every possible question the board could ask.
There was only one variable he could not control.
The universe.
The universe had been trying to kill him since birth.
When Yoo Joonghyuk was five, a birthday clown had tripped over a balloon animal and fallen into the cake. When he was nine, he had won a school award only for the stage curtain to detach and wrap around him like a defeated vampire. At fifteen, he had prepared for a national fencing tournament and gotten locked in a bathroom because the doorknob had decided to enter retirement. At twenty-one, he had been accepted into a prestigious internship and then struck by a falling promotional banner that read: YOUR FUTURE STARTS HERE!
His future had started under vinyl.
People called it coincidence.
People were idiots.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped into the shower.
The showerhead sputtered.
Then it released water so cold that his soul briefly left his body, looked around, decided there was nothing worth staying for, and came back annoyed.
He did not flinch.
He washed his hair under glacial conditions, because he was Yoo Joonghyuk and not a lesser creature such as a normal human being with nerves. He reached for his shampoo.
The bottle slipped from his hand, hit the floor, bounced off the edge of the drain, launched upward with the physics of a vengeful dolphin, and struck him squarely in the forehead.
Yoo Joonghyuk closed his eyes.
A weaker man would have cursed.
A stronger man would have laughed.
Yoo Joonghyuk was neither weak nor strong. Yoo Joonghyuk was a pressure cooker with cheekbones.
He finished showering.
He stepped out.
The towel rack detached from the wall.
The towel fell into the toilet.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at it.
The towel looked back, drowned and innocent.
He used a backup towel.
The backup towel had apparently developed a mystery hole the size of a fist.
He used it anyway.
By 5:10 a.m., he was dressed in a black suit that made him look like he was either attending a funeral or preparing to cause one. He buttoned his cuffs, tied his tie, and checked the mirror.
The mirror cracked.
Just a thin line from top to bottom, as if reality had seen Yoo Joonghyuk’s face and decided there needed to be a border.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared.
His reflection stared back, split cleanly through one eye.
“Today,” he said, “you will not win.”
The mirror, not being sentient but very much being an accomplice, said nothing.
In the kitchen, his smart coffee machine refused to turn on.
Yoo Joonghyuk checked the outlet.
Fine.
He checked the machine.
Fine.
He checked the water tank.
Fine.
He pressed the button again.
The machine beeped and displayed: ERROR 999.
There was no error 999 in the manual. He knew this because he had read the manual after error 404, error 12, and the incident last month when the machine had dispensed hot water, beans, and one small screw into his cup.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the machine.
The machine stared at him with its little digital face.
He considered violence.
Then he made instant coffee with the solemnity of a man burying a comrade.
He opened the fridge.
A container of kimchi rolled out, hit the floor, and exploded.
Somehow the lid flew upward, ricocheted off the ceiling, and landed neatly in his shoe by the door.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked down at the red disaster spreading across his kitchen tiles.
Then he looked at the clock.
5:23 a.m.
He had time.
He cleaned it.
He did not think about how the kimchi looked like a crime scene.
He did not think about how the universe had given him a tomato-red omen before breakfast.
He did not think about how Han Sooyoung would somehow know about this later and make a joke about him being murdered by fermented cabbage.
At 5:41 a.m., he left his apartment.
He stepped into the hallway.
His elderly neighbor, Mrs. Lee, opened her door at the exact same time.
She was holding a tiny white dog named Napoleon, because the dog was small, aggressive, and had imperial ambitions.
Napoleon saw Yoo Joonghyuk.
Napoleon growled.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked down.
Napoleon looked up.
Two predators acknowledged each other across the food chain.
“Good morning, Joonghyuk-ssi,” Mrs. Lee said brightly. “Big day today?”
Yoo Joonghyuk nodded. “Yes.”
“Oh, good luck!”
The hallway lights went out.
Napoleon barked like he had personally caused it.
Mrs. Lee laughed. “Oh my. The building is acting up again.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not laugh. “It is not the building.”
Mrs. Lee patted Napoleon’s head. “You young people are so dramatic.”
Napoleon sneezed on Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoe.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the dog.
The dog looked proud.
At the elevator, Yoo Joonghyuk pressed the down button.
The elevator arrived immediately.
This was suspicious.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at the opening doors.
The elevator was empty. Clean. Well-lit. Not making a sound like a dying whale.
This was extremely suspicious.
He stepped in.
The doors closed.
The elevator descended from the fourteenth floor to the thirteenth.
Then stopped.
Of course.
The lights flickered.
The emergency speaker crackled.
A cheerful automated voice said, “Please remain calm.”
Yoo Joonghyuk remained calm in the same way a loaded gun remained calm.
The voice continued, “Assistance is on the way.”
A second voice crackled through the speaker. Human this time. “Hello? Is someone inside?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Joonghyuk-ssi?”
Yoo Joonghyuk closed his eyes.
It was the building security guard, Park. Nice man. Useless under pressure. Once tried to help Yoo Joonghyuk open a jammed mailbox and somehow trapped both of their hands inside it.
“Again?” Park asked.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Open the doors.”
“We called maintenance.”
“Open the doors.”
“It may take twenty minutes.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at his watch.
5:49 a.m.
He had planned his schedule with a thirty-minute buffer because he had learned long ago that optimism was for people whose toasters did not occasionally shoot bread across the room like artillery.
Twenty minutes was acceptable.
Then the sprinkler system activated.
Inside the elevator.
There was no fire.
There was no smoke.
There was only Yoo Joonghyuk, standing beneath a rain of betrayal.
In fact, why the fuck is there a sprinkler system inside an elevator?
Park made a tiny noise through the speaker. “Oh no.”
Yoo Joonghyuk tilted his face upward.
Cold water ran down his hair, his suit, his tie.
The universe had chosen comedy.
Yoo Joonghyuk wanted to choose murder.
“Park-ssi,” he said.
“Yes?”
“When I get out of here, pretend you never saw me.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is advice.”
At 6:17 a.m., Yoo Joonghyuk emerged from the elevator soaked but upright. Maintenance apologized. Park handed him a towel with the expression of a man offering tribute to a volcano.
Yoo Joonghyuk took it.
The towel had cartoon ducks on it.
He wiped his face with three ducks and a speech bubble that said QUACK QUACK HAPPY DAY!
No one spoke.
This was wise.
He returned to his apartment, changed into his backup suit, blow-dried his hair, and left again at 6:42 a.m.
The elevator was still broken.
He took the stairs.
On the ninth floor, a child was sitting on the landing tying his shoe.
The child looked up.
“Ahjusshi, are you a gangster?”
Yoo Joonghyuk walked past him. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You look like you beat people up for money.”
“I beat people up for free.”
The child’s eyes widened with admiration.
Yoo Joonghyuk continued downward.
Behind him, the child whispered, “Cool.”
At the building entrance, he stepped outside.
The sky was gray.
It was not raining.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not trust it.
He opened his umbrella anyway.
A gust of wind immediately turned it inside out.
He stared at the umbrella.
The umbrella, now shaped like a black skeletal flower, trembled pathetically.
Yoo Joonghyuk closed it.
A second gust of wind tore it from his hand and sent it spinning down the street.
A cyclist swerved to avoid it, hit a puddle, and sprayed water directly at Yoo Joonghyuk.
He stepped aside before it reached him.
The water hit a passing deliveryman instead.
The deliveryman shouted.
Yoo Joonghyuk kept walking.
His taxi app showed his driver was three minutes away.
Then seven.
Then twelve.
Then canceled.
He requested another.
Canceled.
Another.
The app crashed.
He looked up.
A bus was approaching.
Fine.
He would take the bus.
The bus drove past without stopping despite the fact that he was standing directly under the bus stop sign.
Inside the bus, the driver looked straight at him and gave a little shrug.
Yoo Joonghyuk memorized his face.
Not for revenge.
For justice.
At 7:03 a.m., he began walking toward the subway station.
His office was forty minutes away by subway. The client meeting was at nine. He still had time.
He had time because Yoo Joonghyuk had learned to build his life like a war bunker: redundant routes, emergency plans, backup documents, duplicate chargers, spare shoes in the office, and a USB containing the presentation in his jacket pocket, because cloud storage could not be trusted after the “syncing…” incident of last winter.
The city, unfortunately, had also made plans.
The first plan involved a flock of pigeons.
Yoo Joonghyuk saw them gathered near a bakery, pecking at crumbs with the soulless enthusiasm of tiny accountants.
He kept his distance.
Pigeons loved him.
Not in the normal way animals loved humans, with loyalty or affection or the basic decency of not committing crimes.
Pigeons loved Yoo Joonghyuk like gamblers loved a rigged machine.
They saw him and knew the universe would reward them.
One pigeon lifted its head.
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped.
The pigeon stared.
It was gray. Round. Stupid-looking. This was camouflage. Yoo Joonghyuk had never trusted stupid-looking things. Many stupid-looking things were secretly competent at ruining his day.
The pigeon took one step toward him.
Yoo Joonghyuk took one step back.
The pigeon fluffed itself.
Yoo Joonghyuk narrowed his eyes.
A businessman walking past gave him a strange look, because from the outside this appeared to be a handsome man in a black suit having a silent duel with urban wildlife.
From the inside, it was exactly that.
The pigeon launched.
Yoo Joonghyuk moved.
The pigeon missed his head by a centimeter, which was unacceptable because the pigeon should not have been aiming for his head at all.
He turned.
The pigeon landed on a street sign and stared at him.
Then it opened its beak.
Something fell.
Not bird droppings.
Worse.
His subway card.
Yoo Joonghyuk froze.
He patted his coat pocket.
Empty.
He patted the other pocket.
Empty.
The pigeon had stolen his subway card.
This was not possible.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not care.
“Give it back.”
The pigeon blinked.
“Now.”
The pigeon picked up the card with its beak.
Yoo Joonghyuk lunged.
The pigeon flew.
Thus began the most humiliating chase in the history of metropolitan Seoul.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not run after a pigeon because he lacked dignity. He ran after a pigeon because dignity did not recharge subway cards.
The pigeon flew low, weaving between pedestrians with the smugness of a creature that did not pay taxes. Yoo Joonghyuk pursued with murder in his heart and Italian leather shoes on his feet. People shouted. Someone dropped a croissant. A child clapped. A tourist took a video.
Yoo Joonghyuk jumped over a fallen delivery box.
The pigeon gained altitude.
“Stop,” Yoo Joonghyuk ordered.
The pigeon did not stop.
This confirmed that pigeons had no respect for authority.
It flew toward a small park beside the subway station, landed on the edge of a fountain, and dropped the card into the water.
Yoo Joonghyuk arrived one second later.
The card floated.
The pigeon watched.
A second pigeon landed beside it.
Then a third.
Yoo Joonghyuk understood.
Witnesses.
He reached into the fountain.
His sleeve got wet.
His hand closed around the card.
The fountain jets turned on.
A blast of water struck him in the chest.
For one pure second, Yoo Joonghyuk experienced what it meant to be a decorative statue.
He stood in the fountain spray, hair damp, suit wet again, hand clenched around his subway card.
The pigeons scattered.
Cowards.
Someone nearby said, “Is this performance art?”
Another person said, “I think he’s filming something.”
A third person said, “He’s kind of hot.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped out of the fountain.
His left shoe squelched.
He looked at his watch.
7:19 a.m.
Still possible.
The subway station entrance was forty meters away.
Forty meters.
A distance a healthy adult man could walk in less than a minute.
Yoo Joonghyuk had run marathons. Yoo Joonghyuk had carried injured men twice his size down mountains during military training. Yoo Joonghyuk had once assembled IKEA furniture without instructions and without crying.
Forty meters was nothing.
Then the construction workers appeared.
A temporary barrier had been placed around the subway entrance.
A sign read: ENTRANCE CLOSED DUE TO UNEXPECTED MAINTENANCE. PLEASE USE EXIT 4.
Exit 4 was across the intersection.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked across the intersection.
A red light glowed.
The crosswalk timer displayed 96 seconds.
Ninety-six seconds.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at it as if intimidation could influence municipal infrastructure.
It could not.
The timer began counting down.
Ninety-five.
Ninety-four.
A drop of water fell from his hair onto his nose.
Ninety-three.
His phone buzzed.
He looked down.
Han Sooyoung: why did someone send me a video of you fighting a pigeon
Yoo Joonghyuk closed the notification.
Han Sooyoung: follow-up question: why did you lose
He turned his phone face down in his hand.
The timer reached seventy-six.
A bus drove by and splashed water from the curb.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped back.
The splash missed him by a fraction.
Good.
The universe was sloppy.
At fifty-two seconds, his phone buzzed again.
Han Sooyoung: i’m putting this in the group chat
At forty-nine seconds, the wind picked up.
At forty-seven, a plastic bag wrapped itself around his ankle.
At forty-five, he kicked it away.
At forty-three, it returned.
At forty-one, he stepped on it with the quiet fury of a man suppressing an empire.
At thirty-nine, a child beside him pointed and said, “Mom, that man is wet.”
The mother said, “Don’t stare.”
The child said, “But he looks like he lost a fight with a car wash.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not look at the child.
Children were honest, and therefore dangerous.
The light turned green.
Yoo Joonghyuk walked.
Halfway across the crosswalk, his subway card slipped from his wet fingers.
It fell.
A tire passed over it.
The card shot across the road like a skipping stone, slid through a storm drain grate, and vanished.
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped in the middle of the crosswalk.
The city moved around him.
People flowed past. Cars waited.
Somewhere, a pigeon laughed.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked down at the storm drain.
Then at the sky.
The sky did not apologize.
He had backups.
He always had backups.
He walked to the convenience store beside Exit 4 to buy a temporary transit card.
The automatic doors did not open.
He stepped back.
He stepped forward.
Nothing.
A customer inside looked at him, then at the sensor, then waved awkwardly.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped to the side.
The doors opened for a teenager carrying banana milk.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped in behind him.
The doors began closing and hit him in the shoulder.
He looked at them.
The doors retreated.
Cowards.
Inside, the fluorescent lights hummed. The air smelled like instant noodles, fried snacks, and the particular sadness of people buying breakfast at convenience stores before eight.
Yoo Joonghyuk walked to the counter.
“I need a transit card.”
The cashier, a college student with hair clips shaped like strawberries, looked under the counter. “Sorry, we just sold the last one.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stared.
She smiled weakly. “There’s another convenience store two blocks away.”
“Of course there is.”
“Do you want an umbrella instead?”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the rack of umbrellas by the door.
One of them was already broken.
“No.”
He bought a black coffee.
The lid popped off when he picked it up.
Hot coffee spilled over his hand.
The cashier gasped.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not react.
Pain was temporary. Rage was renewable.
He took napkins, wiped his hand, and left the store.
His phone buzzed again.
Han Sooyoung: you are trending in our office
Han Sooyoung: not on social media. just spiritually
Yoo Joonghyuk considered blocking her.
He had considered blocking her every day for seven years.
Unfortunately, she was also the senior copywriter on the Star Stream proposal and the only person capable of making client reports sound less like a machine had coughed up an urban planning textbook.
He did not block her.
He did not reply either.
He began walking to the other convenience store.
A delivery scooter backfired beside him.
A car alarm went off.
A nearby shop sign flickered and sparked.
A street vendor dropped an entire tray of fish cakes.
Yoo Joonghyuk kept walking.
He had entered the phase of bad luck where individual events became meaningless. There was only weather. Disaster weather. A low-pressure system of nonsense following him through the streets.
He reached the second convenience store at 7:36 a.m.
It was closed.
A sign on the door read: BACK IN 5 MINUTES.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked through the glass.
No one inside.
He looked at the sign.
He looked at his watch.
He waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then seven.
Then ten.
At eleven minutes, a man in a convenience store vest jogged up the street holding a bag of steamed buns.
“Sorry! Sorry!” the man panted. “Bathroom emergency.”
Yoo Joonghyuk moved aside.
The man unlocked the door.
The key broke in the lock.
They both stared at it.
The man whispered, “No.”
Yoo Joonghyuk closed his eyes.
The universe was not just winning. The universe was doing a victory dance and inviting his ancestors.
“I will go elsewhere,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
The man looked close to tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Do not apologize. It was inevitable.”
The man did not understand.
That was fine. Most people did not understand war unless they had lived in it.
At 7:52 a.m., Yoo Joonghyuk found a taxi.
Not through an app. Not through luck. Through sheer dominance. He stepped off the curb, made eye contact with an approaching empty cab, and raised one hand with the cold authority of a general summoning cavalry.
The taxi stopped.
Yoo Joonghyuk opened the rear door.
A woman appeared from nowhere, ducked under his arm, and slid into the back seat.
“Thanks!” she said, closing the door.
The taxi drove away.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood at the curb with his hand still on the air where the door had been.
The wind blew.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
He lowered his hand.
He would remember her face too.
Not for revenge.
For urban planning.
At 8:01 a.m., he was still fifteen minutes from the subway station on foot and twenty-seven minutes from the office by train if nothing else went wrong.
Something else would go wrong.
His phone rang.
He answered without looking.
“What?”
“Wow,” Han Sooyoung said. “Good morning to you too, fountain prince.”
“Speak.”
“I would, but I’m still wiping tears from my eyes. Did you really chase a pigeon into a fountain?”
“It stole my card.”
“It stole your dignity.”
“Do you need something?”
“Yes. The client moved the presentation up.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped walking.
A leaf flew directly into his face.
He removed it.
“What?”
“Eight forty-five.”
“It was nine.”
“Now it’s eight forty-five.”
“Why?”
“Because one of the board members has to leave early for a charity golf thing. Rich people have schedules made of crimes.”
Yoo Joonghyuk checked his watch.
8:02 a.m.
Forty-three minutes.
He could still make it if he reached the subway immediately, if the train arrived in less than three minutes, if there were no delays, if the station was not on fire, if no animal species developed a vendetta against him between here and there.
So, no.
But Yoo Joonghyuk had never accepted reality just because it was correct.
“I will be there.”
Han Sooyoung paused. “Are you running?”
“I will be there.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He hung up.
Then he ran.
Yoo Joonghyuk ran like the city owed him money. People moved out of his way instinctively because he looked like a man who had somewhere to be and a list of enemies written in his bloodstream.
He crossed a side street.
A truck honked.
He dodged a cyclist, a grandmother with a cart, a man carrying a suspicious number of balloons, and a street mascot dressed like a dumpling.
The dumpling tried to hand him a flyer.
Yoo Joonghyuk ignored him.
The dumpling followed.
“Sir! Grand opening discount!”
Yoo Joonghyuk increased speed.
The dumpling increased speed.
This was unacceptable. No dumpling should have cardio.
At the corner near the station, the sidewalk narrowed because of construction scaffolding. Yoo Joonghyuk veered left.
A soccer ball rolled into his path.
He stepped over it.
A child shouted, “Mister! Kick it back!”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not have time.
The ball hit a rock, bounced off the curb, and launched itself upward.
It struck a signpost.
The signpost trembled.
Above him, a flock of pigeons exploded from the scaffolding.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked up.
The pigeons looked down.
War resumed.
He ran faster.
A sudden gust of wind ripped loose a plastic tarp from the scaffolding. It billowed outward like a ghost with a grudge.
Yoo Joonghyuk ducked.
The tarp missed him.
The dumpling mascot behind him was not so lucky.
“Grand opening!” the dumpling screamed as it disappeared under plastic.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not look back.
He was twenty meters from the station entrance.
Fifteen.
Ten.
Then a truck hit a pothole.
Yoo Joonghyuk heard it before he saw it: the heavy splash of tires slicing through a curbside puddle, the sound of incoming humiliation.
He glanced left.
A wall of dirty water rose from the street.
There was no time to dodge.
Of course there wasn’t.
The universe had always loved timing.
Yoo Joonghyuk braced himself.
Then someone bumped into him.
Not hard. Just enough to knock him one step backward.
The wall of water passed in front of him.
It did not touch him.
Instead, it gained sentience and it struck a man in a beige coat walking in the opposite direction.
The man froze, soaked from neck to knees.
The truck continued onward.
The pigeons scattered.
The construction tarp slapped harmlessly against a railing.
A coffee cup that had been rolling toward Yoo Joonghyuk’s shoe stopped at the exact edge of a drain.
The traffic light turned green.
The crowd parted.
For one second, the city was quiet.
Not actually quiet. Seoul was incapable of quiet. But around Yoo Joonghyuk, the disasters stopped breathing.
He looked down.
The person who had bumped into him was holding a convenience store coffee in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. He was slim, pale, with messy dark hair, sleepy eyes, and the general aura of someone who had not emotionally arrived at the morning despite being physically present inside it.
He wore an oversized gray hoodie under a cheap black coat. His shoes were worn. His expression suggested he had accidentally entered a cutscene and wanted to skip it.
The coffee in his hand had not spilled.
Not a single drop.
Impossible.
The stranger looked up at Yoo Joonghyuk.
Then at the space between them.
Then at Yoo Joonghyuk again.
“You’re blocking the sidewalk,” he said.
His voice was flat. Not rude exactly. More like the world had disappointed him before breakfast and he was rationing emotion.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at him.
The stranger stared back for half a second, clearly decided Yoo Joonghyuk was not his problem, and stepped around him.
The moment he moved away, a flowerpot fell from the second-floor balcony above.
It smashed exactly where Yoo Joonghyuk had been standing before the stranger bumped him.
Soil burst across the pavement.
A small cactus rolled out like a defeated grenade.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the smashed pot.
Then at the stranger.
The stranger kept walking.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s phone, which had been at 3% battery for twenty minutes despite being at 78% when he left the apartment, suddenly buzzed back to life.
The screen lit up.
Battery: 41%.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared.
No.
He checked again.
41%.
The subway entrance ahead was open.
The light was green.
A taxi pulled up to the curb and the driver leaned out. “Need a ride?”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the taxi.
Then at the stranger.
Then at the smashed flowerpot.
Then at his phone.
Then at the sky.
The sky, for once, had no comment.
Yoo Joonghyuk began walking after the stranger.
The stranger noticed after six steps because Yoo Joonghyuk did not know how to follow someone casually. He followed like a storm cloud in designer shoes.
The stranger glanced back.
Yoo Joonghyuk kept walking.
The stranger walked faster.
Yoo Joonghyuk matched pace.
The stranger turned down a side street.
Yoo Joonghyuk turned too.
The stranger stopped.
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped.
They stood in front of a bakery with fogged windows and a sign advertising red bean buns.
The stranger slowly turned around.
“Are you following me?”
“Yes.”
Most people lied in these situations.
Yoo Joonghyuk saw no tactical advantage in lying.
The stranger blinked. “Okay. That’s a crime.”
“No.”
“It very much is.”
“I need to confirm something.”
The stranger looked him up and down. His gaze paused on the damp edges of Yoo Joonghyuk’s suit, the wet hair, the one shoe that still made a faint squelching sound, and the expression of a man who had looked into the abyss and found it annoying.
“Are you selling insurance?”
“No.”
“Cult recruitment?”
“No.”
“Debt collector?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
The stranger turned to leave.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped after him.
A loose sign above the bakery creaked.
The stranger stopped.
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped one meter behind him.
The sign stabilized.
The stranger took one step forward.
The sign creaked again.
Yoo Joonghyuk took one step forward.
The sign stabilized.
They both looked up.
The sign read: HAPPY BREAD DAY!
It had the face of a smiling baguette.
Fuck you.
Yoo Joonghyuk hated it immediately.
The stranger looked at the sign, then at Yoo Joonghyuk, then took a slow step backward until they were standing almost shoulder to shoulder.
The sign did not move.
He stepped away.
The sign creaked.
He stepped back.
The sign stopped.
The stranger’s eyes narrowed.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed too.
A normal person might have said, “What a coincidence.”
Yoo Joonghyuk had strangled coincidence in a mental alley years ago.
The stranger said, “Nope.”
Then he turned and walked away very quickly.
Yoo Joonghyuk followed.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“I need your name.”
“No, you need therapy.”
“What is your name?”
“Police.”
“That is not a name.”
“It will be the next person you talk to if you keep following me.”
Yoo Joonghyuk checked his watch.
8:09 a.m.
The presentation.
He needed to get to the office.
He also needed to understand why a random hoodie goblin had just neutralized his personal apocalypse by standing near him.
Priorities collided.
The presentation won by a narrow margin because losing the Star Stream contract would give Han Sooyoung material for six months.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped in front of the stranger.
The stranger stopped so abruptly his coffee sloshed.
Again, it did not spill.
Yoo Joonghyuk pointed toward the street. “I need to get to Yeouido in thirty-six minutes.”
The stranger stared. “Congratulations?”
“You will come with me.”
The stranger looked around as if searching for hidden cameras. “You say that like you’ve never been pepper-sprayed.”
“I will pay you.”
The stranger paused.
This was the first useful reaction.
Yoo Joonghyuk continued, “One hundred thousand won.”
“For what? Being kidnapped?”
“For accompanying me.”
“That’s worse.”
“Two hundred thousand.”
The stranger’s mouth opened. Closed.
His eyes moved toward Yoo Joonghyuk’s suit. His watch. His shoes. His face, unfortunately. Then back to his coffee.
“I’m not getting into a car with you.”
“We can take the subway.”
“I’m not getting into public transportation with a stalker either.”
“Three hundred.”
The stranger looked personally injured by capitalism.
Yoo Joonghyuk waited.
The stranger said, “Cash?”
“Transfer.”
“No.”
“Cash at destination.”
The stranger hesitated.
Yoo Joonghyuk could see the calculation happening behind his eyes. It was not greed. It was survival math. Rent. Food. Bills. The specific poverty-flavored thought of this is definitely a scam but also three hundred thousand won is three hundred thousand won.
Finally, the stranger said, “I have conditions.”
“Speak.”
“First, you walk in front of me where I can see you.”
“Fine.”
“Second, if you try anything weird, I scream.”
“Unnecessary.”
“Third, if you murder me, I’m haunting you.”
“That is not a condition.”
“It’s a warning.”
“Fine.”
“Fourth, I’m buying breakfast with your money.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the bakery.
The sign creaked ominously.
The stranger pointed at him. “And you’re standing close enough that the bread sign doesn’t decapitate me.”
“You noticed.”
“I’m poor, not stupid.”
Yoo Joonghyuk approved of this distinction.
“What is your name?” he asked.
The stranger’s expression closed.
For a moment, something sharp and tired passed through his eyes, something that did not belong in a crackfic morning full of pigeons and cursed signage.
Then it vanished.
“Kim Dokja.”
Yoo Joonghyuk repeated it silently.
Kim Dokja.
The name settled oddly in his mind. Not familiar, exactly. Not important. But noticeable, like a bookmark sticking out of a book he had not opened yet.
“I am Yoo Joonghyuk.”
Kim Dokja stared at him.
“Okay.”
Most people reacted more strongly.
Yoo Joonghyuk was aware of his own reputation. He had been featured in business magazines as a “rising star of urban design,” an “architectural prodigy,” and once, regrettably, “the ice prince of metropolitan development,” which had caused Han Sooyoung to laugh so hard she fell out of her chair and filed for emotional damages against the magazine for not calling him “babygirl.”
Kim Dokja did not seem impressed.
This was irritating.
This was interesting.
This was irrelevant.
“Buy your breakfast,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
Kim Dokja looked at the bakery. “You’re coming inside.”
“Why?”
“Because if this luck thing is real, I’m not dying under a croissant chandelier because you stood too far away.”
“There is no croissant chandelier.”
Kim Dokja pointed through the bakery window.
There was, inexplicably, a decorative mobile made of fake croissants hanging above the counter.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared at it.
The croissants swayed.
He stepped closer to Kim Dokja.
They stopped.
Kim Dokja whispered, “What the fuck.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not whisper. “Efficient.”
“That is not the word.”
They entered the bakery.
The automatic door opened smoothly.
Yoo Joonghyuk paused.
Kim Dokja glanced back. “What?”
“The door opened.”
“That’s what doors do.”
“Not for me.”
Kim Dokja stared for one second too long, then looked away. “I don’t want to know.”
Inside, the bakery smelled warm and sweet. The owner greeted Kim Dokja by name, which meant he came here often. Kim Dokja bought two red bean buns, one packet of milk, and a discounted triangle kimbap from a sad little refrigerated section that looked like it had been rejected by the convenience store next door.
Yoo Joonghyuk watched him pay.
Kim Dokja counted coins.
His fingers were thin. His sleeves were worn at the cuffs.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked away.
Observation was not sympathy.
It was intelligence gathering.
Kim Dokja took one red bean bun and held out the other. “You look like you’re about to eat someone’s soul. Eat bread instead.”
“I don’t eat sugar in the morning.”
Kim Dokja lowered the bun. “Okay, then die.”
Yoo Joonghyuk took the bun.
Kim Dokja smiled faintly.
It was not a big smile. It was barely a curve of the mouth. But it had the smugness of a man who had made a mountain move two centimeters and planned to write it in his diary.
Yoo Joonghyuk took one bite.
It was good.
He did not say so.
Kim Dokja said, “It’s good, right?”
Yoo Joonghyuk chewed.
Kim Dokja’s smile widened by half a millimeter. “Your face says yes.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face says you’re emotionally constipated but the bun is helping.”
Yoo Joonghyuk swallowed. “Walk.”
They left the bakery.
The sign did not fall.
A taxi was waiting at the curb.
The driver leaned out. “Yeouido? I’m heading that way.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.
Kim Dokja looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.
“Does this not usually happen?” Kim Dokja asked.
“No.”
“Does the taxi usually explode?”
“Sometimes.”
“Comforting.”
“Once, the meter caught fire.”
“Less comforting.”
They got in.
Yoo Joonghyuk sat on the left. Kim Dokja sat on the right, keeping the plastic bakery bag on his lap like a shield.
The taxi pulled into traffic.
For the first time that morning, nothing happened.
No cars swerved. No cyclists appeared from impossible angles. No construction cranes dropped steel beams in the shape of personal insults. No pigeons hit the windshield. The driver did not decide to take a “shortcut” through Busan. The road ahead remained clear, absurdly clear, as though Seoul had been parted by divine traffic management.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared out the window.
Kim Dokja sipped his milk.
The silence stretched.
Then Kim Dokja said, “So.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not look at him.
Kim Dokja continued, “Do you often pay strangers to sit near you in taxis?”
“No.”
“First time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a punch card?”
“No.”
“Shame. Every tenth kidnapping should be free.”
“It is not kidnapping.”
“You offered me money to get in a vehicle with you after following me down the street.”
“You accepted.”
“Because I’m financially vulnerable. That doesn’t make you less suspicious.”
Yoo Joonghyuk finally looked at him.
Kim Dokja met his gaze. His expression was lazy, but his eyes were alert. He was scared. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But he was watching Yoo Joonghyuk’s hands, the door lock, the driver, the route on the navigation screen.
Smart.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked away first.
“I will not harm you.”
“That’s exactly what someone who might harm me would say.”
“Then what should I say?”
“Something normal.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
Kim Dokja paused.
Then, to Yoo Joonghyuk’s irritation, he laughed.
It was a small laugh, startled out of him like a coin dropped from a pocket. It made his face change. Less tired. Younger. Annoyingly human.
Yoo Joonghyuk faced the window again.
The taxi turned onto a main road.
Every traffic light ahead turned green.
All of them.
One after another, green lights bloomed down the street like the city had decided to apologize.
The driver whistled. “Lucky day.”
Kim Dokja looked out the windshield.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja felt the stare and slowly turned.
“No.”
“I said nothing.”
“Your face said something.”
“My face says nothing.”
“Your face says you’re about to create a spreadsheet titled Evidence That Hoodie Man Is A Human Good Luck Battery.”
Yoo Joonghyuk had already created the spreadsheet mentally.
Column A: Incident.
Column B: Distance from Kim Dokja.
Column C: Severity of disaster avoided.
Column D: Probability of coincidence.
Column E: Notes.
Note 1: Subject mouthy.
Note 2: Subject eats cheap food.
Note 3: Subject laugh dangerous. Investigate later.
No. Delete Note 3.
The taxi reached Yeouido at 8:31 a.m.
Impossible.
Yoo Joonghyuk paid the driver.
Kim Dokja got out first and looked up at the building before them: a glass tower with the company logo shining near the entrance. He took in the lobby, the security gates, the businesspeople moving in polished streams.
His shoulders tightened.
Yoo Joonghyuk noticed.
“Come.”
Kim Dokja did not move. “I thought destination meant outside.”
“You need to stay near me until the meeting is over.”
Kim Dokja turned slowly.
“No.”
“Five hundred thousand.”
Kim Dokja’s soul visibly tripped.
Yoo Joonghyuk pressed the advantage. “One hour.”
“I’m not dressed for whatever rich people cult meeting you’re going to.”
“You are not attending. You will sit nearby.”
“In the lobby?”
“Conference floor.”
“Absolutely not.”
“One million.”
Kim Dokja made a noise like someone had stepped on his principles.
Yoo Joonghyuk waited.
Kim Dokja covered his face with one hand. “I hate capitalism so much.”
“Is that agreement?”
“That is moral distress.”
“Is your moral distress coming upstairs?”
Kim Dokja lowered his hand and glared. “You’re very annoying.”
“Yes.”
“And weird.”
“Yes.”
“And probably cursed.”
“Yes.”
Kim Dokja paused. “You admit that?”
“I am accurate.”
Kim Dokja stared at him.
Then he sighed with the profound exhaustion of a man who had woken up expecting a normal day and instead been employed as an anti-curse humidifier.
“One hour,” Kim Dokja said. “One million won. Cash or transfer before I leave.”
“Fine.”
“And if anyone asks, I’m your consultant.”
“No one will ask.”
“Someone will definitely ask.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him: hoodie, cheap coat, convenience store bag, hair that appeared to have lost an argument with a pillow.
“No one will ask.”
They entered the building.
The revolving door rotated smoothly.
Yoo Joonghyuk almost stopped again.
Kim Dokja noticed. “Don’t tell me doors don’t work for you here either.”
“Revolving doors are traps.”
“They’re doors.”
“Circular coffins.”
Kim Dokja opened his mouth. Closed it. “You know what, sure.”
At security, Yoo Joonghyuk scanned his ID badge.
It worked on the first try.
He stared at the gate.
The security guard stared at him.
“Sir?”
Yoo Joonghyuk walked through.
Kim Dokja stopped at the visitor desk and looked uncertain.
Yoo Joonghyuk took out his phone. “Name.”
“I told you.”
“Full name.”
“Kim Dokja.”
“Date of birth.”
“No.”
“To register you.”
Kim Dokja gave it after a suspicious pause.
Yoo Joonghyuk typed quickly. His phone did not freeze. The visitor badge printed without jamming. The printer did not catch fire. The badge did not come out saying KIM DOGJA or UNKNOWN LIABILITY or, as had once happened to Han Sooyoung, HAN SOUPYOUNG.
The badge printed perfectly.
Kim Dokja clipped it to his coat.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared.
Kim Dokja snapped his fingers in front of his face. “Stop looking like I just cured your tuberculosis.”
“You may have.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
They took the elevator.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood very still.
Kim Dokja glanced at him. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Elevator trauma?”
“Yes.”
“Recent?”
“This morning.”
“Oh.”
The elevator rose smoothly.
No stops. No flickering lights. No sprinkler system. No emergency voice telling them to remain calm. No elevator music turning into static and then, inexplicably, trot.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood beside Kim Dokja and experienced peace for the first time in perhaps his entire life.
It was horrible.
Peace made him suspicious.
The doors opened on the twenty-third floor.
Han Sooyoung was waiting.
This was the true disaster.
She stood near the reception area in a white blouse, black trousers, and a red blazer that very obviously screams, I have arrived to ruin someone's life professionally. Her short hair was slightly messy, her eyeliner sharp enough to qualify as office equipment. She held a tablet in one hand and Yoo Joonghyuk’s emergency backup presentation folder in the other.
Her eyes landed on him.
Then on Kim Dokja.
Then back to him.
A grin spread across her face.
Yoo Joonghyuk knew that grin. It was the grin of a woman who had found a narrative inconsistency and planned to exploit it for twenty chapters.
“Well,” Han Sooyoung said. “This explains nothing and yet somehow everything.”
“Move,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
She did not move. “Who is this?”
“My consultant.”
Kim Dokja made a choking sound.
Han Sooyoung’s grin widened. “Consultant for what? Wet pigeon combat?”
Yoo Joonghyuk held out his hand. “Folder.”
She gave it to him but continued staring at Kim Dokja. “Hi. I’m Han Sooyoung. I’m the only reason this company’s reports don’t sound like they were written by a refrigerator with abandonment issues.”
Kim Dokja looked at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he said, “Kim Dokja. Temporary consultant.”
Han Sooyoung’s eyes sparkled. “Temporary?”
“One hour.”
“How much is he paying you?”
Kim Dokja looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Irrelevant.”
Han Sooyoung gasped. “Oh, it’s embarrassing money.”
Kim Dokja said, “One million.”
Han Sooyoung dropped her tablet.
Yoo Joonghyuk caught it before it hit the floor.
Everyone froze.
Han Sooyoung stared at the tablet in his hand.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared too.
He had caught it.
Cleanly.
No cracked screen. No bounce into an open vent, then suddenly gets stuck on something and caused the building to explode. No ricochet into a client’s face. No mysterious software update triggered by impact.
Han Sooyoung slowly turned to Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja slowly raised his hands. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
Han Sooyoung pointed at him. “You.”
“No.”
“You’re the reason.”
“Nope.”
“Yoo Joonghyuk just caught something fragile without destroying it or causing a lawsuit. That has never happened.”
Yoo Joonghyuk handed her the tablet. “Meeting.”
Han Sooyoung took it, still staring at Kim Dokja. “Oh, this is going to be my new favorite problem.”
“It will not be.”
“It already is.”
The conference room doors opened.
A junior employee appeared, pale with panic. “Director Yoo, they’re ready.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja backed up. “No. I’m sitting outside.”
“Inside.”
“Outside.”
“If you are outside, distance may be insufficient.”
“Distance for what?”
Han Sooyoung lifted a hand. “I vote inside.”
“You don’t get a vote,” Kim Dokja said.
“I always get a vote. I usually make the ballot myself.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped closer to Kim Dokja and lowered his voice. “Sit near the wall. Say nothing. Leave after the meeting.”
Kim Dokja looked toward the conference room. Through the glass, several board members sat around a long table. Expensive suits. Expensive watches. Expensive expressions. The kind of people who looked at convenience store food and called it “local color.”
Kim Dokja’s hand tightened around his plastic bag.
For a moment, his expression closed again.
Yoo Joonghyuk recognized it this time. Not fear of him. Fear of being seen somewhere he did not belong.
It made something in Yoo Joonghyuk’s chest shift unpleasantly.
He did not like it.
He did not like chest events in general.
“You are with me,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
Kim Dokja looked up.
Yoo Joonghyuk continued, “No one will question you.”
Han Sooyoung’s eyebrows rose.
Kim Dokja blinked.
Then he looked away. “That sounded almost nice.”
“It was factual.”
“Sure.”
“Do not misunderstand.”
“I’m trying very hard not to.”
They entered the conference room.
The room did not catch fire.
Excellent start.
Yoo Joonghyuk walked to the front. Han Sooyoung took a seat near the presentation controls. Kim Dokja sat in the back corner, holding his bakery bag on his lap like emotional support.
The board members looked at him once, then away.
No one asked.
Kim Dokja’s shoulders loosened slightly.
Yoo Joonghyuk noticed.
Irrelevant.
The presentation began.
Normally, this was where things went wrong.
Normally, the projector refused to connect. The HDMI cable vanished. The Wi-Fi died. The presentation file corrupted. A fire drill began. Someone’s phone played their ringtone at full volume. The ceiling tile above Yoo Joonghyuk loosened. The building exploded. A client spilled coffee on the model. Once, a live crab had appeared in a meeting room. No one had ever explained the crab.
Today, the projector connected instantly.
The presentation opened.
The first slide appeared.
Han Sooyoung looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja looked at his red bean bun.
Yoo Joonghyuk began to speak.
His voice was calm. He explained the site problems, the proposed pedestrian network, the commercial distribution model, the environmental integration plan. He anticipated the first objection before it was raised and answered the second before the board member finished asking.
The clients listened.
No one interrupted unnecessarily.
No one coughed at a critical moment.
No one knocked over water.
No one caused the building to explode.
Slide seventeen, which had crashed every time Han Sooyoung tried to open it yesterday, loaded perfectly.
Han Sooyoung mouthed, holy shit.
Yoo Joonghyuk ignored her.
Kim Dokja, in the back, had started eating his red bean bun very quietly. Crumbs fell onto his plastic bag. He looked bored. Or relaxed. Or both. His eyes occasionally lifted to the presentation with reluctant interest.
At slide twenty-three, the chairman leaned forward.
“This pedestrian corridor,” the chairman said. “You’re suggesting we reduce vehicle access by twelve percent.”
“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
“That could affect premium tenant logistics.”
“It will improve foot traffic by an estimated eighteen percent and increase ground-level retail exposure. The revised loading schedule offsets access reduction between 5:00 and 7:00 a.m.”
The chairman tapped his pen.
The pen did not explode.
Yoo Joonghyuk continued. “The proposal is not designed to make the site easier to enter by car. It is designed to make people want to stay after arriving.”
Silence.
Then the chairman smiled.
“Good answer.”
Han Sooyoung nearly fell out of her chair.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not react.
Internally, he added a new spreadsheet row.
Incident: Chairman did not behave like furniture with money.
Distance from Kim Dokja: approximately 8 meters.
Severity of disaster avoided: high.
Probability of coincidence: beneath contempt.
Notes: Subject still eating.
At 9:27 a.m., the presentation ended.
The board requested a week to review final terms, which in corporate language meant we are interested but must perform ritual hesitation to maintain dominance.
The chairman shook Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand.
No static shock.
No spilled coffee.
No sudden nosebleed.
No pigeon through the window and caused the building to explode.
Yoo Joonghyuk returned the handshake with solemn intensity.
The clients left.
The conference room doors closed.
For three seconds, no one spoke.
Then Han Sooyoung spun toward Kim Dokja.
“You’re hired.”
Kim Dokja, halfway through putting his empty milk carton back in the plastic bag, froze. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know the job.”
“I know enough.”
Han Sooyoung pointed at Yoo Joonghyuk. “Your job is standing near that.”
“I am not an object,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
“You are a workplace hazard with abs.”
Kim Dokja made a strangled sound.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.
Kim Dokja looked away, ears faintly red.
Interesting.
No. Irrelevant.
Han Sooyoung stood and began pacing. “Do you understand what just happened? We had a full meeting with Yoo Joonghyuk and nothing exploded. Nothing. The printer worked. The projector worked. Slide seventeen worked. The chairman smiled like a human being undergoing optional facial movement.”
Kim Dokja raised one hand. “I understand this is probably a shared psychotic episode.”
“You’re funny,” Han Sooyoung said. “I like him.”
“I don’t care.”
“That’s also funny.”
Yoo Joonghyuk checked the time. “Payment.”
Kim Dokja immediately stood. “Yes. Payment. Great. Then I leave and forget this happened.”
“No,” Han Sooyoung said.
“Yes,” Kim Dokja said.
“No,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
Kim Dokja turned toward him. “Excuse me?”
“I need to run tests.”
Han Sooyoung clapped once. “Oh my god, he’s going to science you.”
Kim Dokja pointed at Yoo Joonghyuk. “You are not running tests on me.”
“Near you.”
“No.”
“For compensation.”
Kim Dokja’s mouth tightened.
Han Sooyoung leaned toward him. “He’s rich. Exploit him.”
“I’m not rich,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
“You own three identical black coats, each of which looks like it was made from the concept of inheritance.”
“They are functional.”
“They have cheekbones.”
Kim Dokja looked like he did not want to laugh.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.
Kim Dokja failed and laughed anyway.
It was quiet, but it filled the room more efficiently than Han Sooyoung’s shouting, which was deeply irritating because Han Sooyoung’s shouting had patents pending.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s phone buzzed.
A message from Lee Hyunsung.
Lee Hyunsung: Hyung, I heard the presentation went well! Also, why is there a video of you in a fountain? Are you okay?
Then another.
Lee Hyunsung: The pigeon looked very strong and grew abs just to challenge you.
Yoo Joonghyuk locked his phone.
Kim Dokja caught sight of the screen before it went dark.
“The pigeon looked very strong,” he repeated.
“No.”
“That’s what it said.”
“No.”
“You lost to a strong pigeon?”
“I did not lose.”
“Did you get your card back?”
“No.”
“Then the pigeon won.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped closer.
Kim Dokja did not step back, which was either bravery or stupidity.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “The pigeon used the environment.”
Kim Dokja nodded seriously. “A tactical pigeon.”
Han Sooyoung wheezed.
Yoo Joonghyuk ignored her because acknowledging her would feed her, and Han Sooyoung was already a raccoon inside a writer’s body.
He transferred one million won to Kim Dokja’s account.
Kim Dokja watched the notification appear on his phone.
His eyes widened despite himself.
He turned the screen off quickly, as though the money might flee if it felt observed.
“Okay,” Kim Dokja said. “Pleasure doing business with you. Never contact me again.”
He walked toward the door.
The overhead light flickered.
Yoo Joonghyuk moved after him.
The light stabilized.
Kim Dokja stopped.
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped.
They both looked up.
Han Sooyoung whispered, “Oh, this is delicious.”
Kim Dokja took one careful step away.
The projector sparked.
He stepped back.
The projector stopped.
Kim Dokja closed his eyes. “No.”
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Evidence suggests—”
“No evidence.”
“—your proximity influences my misfortune.”
“I am not responsible for your cursed aura.”
“You may be a countermeasure.”
“I am a person.”
“A person can be a countermeasure.”
Han Sooyoung raised her tablet. “I’m writing that down.”
Kim Dokja looked at her. “Don’t.”
She typed faster.
Yoo Joonghyuk considered the situation.
Kim Dokja wanted to leave. This was understandable. Yoo Joonghyuk would also want to leave if a stranger had revealed that his presence stabilized localized disaster fields.
But letting him leave without securing future access would be strategically incompetent.
Therefore, Yoo Joonghyuk did what he did best.
He negotiated like a man with no social instincts and too much money.
“Three million won.”
Kim Dokja opened his eyes.
Han Sooyoung inhaled so sharply she became a vacuum.
Yoo Joonghyuk continued, “For one week. Mornings only. You accompany me from my apartment to the office and remain within ten meters during critical meetings.”
Kim Dokja stared at him.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared back.
Han Sooyoung whispered, “This is the worst sugar daddy arrangement I’ve ever seen.”
Kim Dokja choked.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Do not make it vulgar.”
“You made it vulgar when you offered a stranger three million won to stand near you,” Han Sooyoung said.
“It is hazard pay.”
“For him or for us?”
“Both.”
Kim Dokja rubbed his forehead. “I have a job.”
“What job?” Yoo Joonghyuk asked.
Kim Dokja’s expression shifted.
“Part-time,” he said. “Bookstore. Afternoon shift.”
“Mornings are free.”
“Not emotionally.”
“Four million.”
Kim Dokja looked pained. “Stop increasing the amount.”
“Five.”
“Oh my god.”
“Six.”
Kim Dokja slapped a hand over Yoo Joonghyuk’s mouth.
The room froze.
Han Sooyoung’s soul left her body and came back holding popcorn.
Oh shit? Why does she actually have popcorn now?
Yoo Joonghyuk looked down.
Kim Dokja’s palm was warm against his mouth.
Kim Dokja seemed to realize what he had done at the same time.
His eyes widened.
He removed his hand so fast he nearly hit himself in the face.
“Sorry,” he said automatically.
Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing.
Not because he was offended.
Because for one incomprehensible second, the universe had gone quiet again. Not the room. The room had the hum of lights, Han Sooyoung’s munching, the distant murmur of employees outside.
But the thing that followed him—the pressure, the expectation of impact, the invisible hand reaching to shove his life down the stairs—had vanished.
Kim Dokja looked embarrassed and annoyed and alive.
Yoo Joonghyuk felt something dangerous enter the spreadsheet.
Delete column.
Burn spreadsheet.
Create new spreadsheet.
No.
He said, “Six million.”
Kim Dokja’s embarrassment died by blunt force trauma. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“One week.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Efficient.”
“That word again.”
Han Sooyoung raised her hand. “As legal witness and enjoyer of bad decisions, I suggest a contract.”
“No contract,” Kim Dokja said.
“A contract protects you,” Han Sooyoung said. “Also, it lets me title the document something funny.”
“You are not naming it.”
“I’m naming it.”
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Terms can be negotiated.”
Kim Dokja looked between them as he stepped away.
He was going to refuse. Yoo Joonghyuk could see it. The money tempted him, but self-preservation was stronger. Kim Dokja had the expression of a man who had survived by knowing which doors not to open.
Yoo Joonghyuk should have let him refuse.
Instead, the ceiling tile above Han Sooyoung shifted.
All three of them looked up.
Han Sooyoung said, “Ah.”
Kim Dokja, instinctively, stepped toward Yoo Joonghyuk.
The tile stopped shifting.
Han Sooyoung looked at Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the tile.
The tile had chosen diplomacy.
Kim Dokja whispered, “This is insane.”
“Yes,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
“You’re insane.”
“Yes.”
“She’s insane.”
Han Sooyoung gave him finger guns. “Professionally.”
Kim Dokja looked at the ceiling again.
Then at his phone, where the one million won transfer notification still glowed when he unlocked it.
Then at Yoo Joonghyuk.
“Only mornings,” he said.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not smile.
Smiling would have been tactically excessive.
“Agreed.”
“Only one week.”
“Agreed.”
“I am not doing anything illegal.”
“Agreed.”
“If you follow me without permission again, I call the police.”
“Agreed.”
“If I say I’m leaving, I leave.”
Yoo Joonghyuk paused.
Kim Dokja’s eyes narrowed.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Agreed.”
Han Sooyoung whispered, “Growth.”
Yoo Joonghyuk ignored her.
Kim Dokja took a breath. “And no calling me a countermeasure.”
Yoo Joonghyuk considered.
Kim Dokja glared.
“Agreed,” Yoo Joonghyuk said.
Han Sooyoung typed rapidly. “No countermeasure. Got it. What about lucky charm?”
“No,” Kim Dokja said.
“Probability consultant?”
“No.”
“Disaster boyfriend?”
Kim Dokja’s face went blank.
Yoo Joonghyuk turned to Han Sooyoung. “Leave.”
“This is my conference room.”
“Leave anyway.”
Han Sooyoung grinned. “Oh, that one hit.”
Kim Dokja’s ears were red again.
This was becoming a pattern.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not file it anywhere.
He absolutely did not create a mental note.
Han Sooyoung, unfortunately, had seen everything and was already making narrative decisions.
“I’ll draft the contract,” she said. “Temporary Morning Proximity Agreement.”
“No,” Kim Dokja said.
“Fine. Emergency Luck-Based Consulting Contract.”
“No.”
“Disaster Boyfriend Trial Period.”
“No!”
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Temporary consulting agreement.”
Han Sooyoung rolled her eyes. “You are allergic to joy.”
“I am allergic to lawsuits.”
“You’re allergic to doors.”
Kim Dokja coughed into his hand.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.
Kim Dokja looked away.
Han Sooyoung stood. “I’ll get coffee. For everyone except Joonghyuk, because machines hate him.”
Kim Dokja said, “I already had coffee.”
“Great. Have another. You’re going to need it.”
She swept out of the room.
The door closed behind her.
Silence returned.
Yoo Joonghyuk and Kim Dokja stood in the middle of the conference room beneath a suspicious ceiling tile and the heavy implication of employment fraud.
Kim Dokja shifted his weight.
“So,” he said.
Yoo Joonghyuk waited.
Kim Dokja looked at him. “Are you really unlucky?”
“Yes.”
“Like, how unlucky?”
Yoo Joonghyuk thought of the elevator sprinkler. The pigeon. The fountain. The subway card. The kimchi. The towel. The mirror. The birthday clown. The crab.
“Yes,” he said again.
Kim Dokja stared. “That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was.”
“Do things just… happen to you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve lived like this your whole life?”
“Yes.”
Kim Dokja’s expression changed in a way Yoo Joonghyuk did not have a category for.
It was not pity.
Pity made Yoo Joonghyuk want to walk into traffic just to prove traffic would lose.
This was something else. Recognition, maybe. Like Kim Dokja knew what it meant for the world to be shaped wrong around you, even if his version had better traffic lights.
Then Kim Dokja said, “That explains your face.”
The moment died.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “My face is normal.”
“Your face looks like you’re constantly receiving disappointing news from God.”
“That would require God to be competent enough to send news.”
Kim Dokja stared.
Then he laughed again.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked away.
The city outside the glass windows shone under a sudden break in the clouds. Sunlight spilled across the conference table, catching on the empty water glasses and polished floor. No one tripped. No alarms rang. No birds attacked the window.
Peace.
Still horrible.
Still, perhaps, tolerable.
Kim Dokja leaned against the edge of the table and looked down at his cheap shoes. “One week,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Then I disappear.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not answer immediately.
He should have said yes.
The contract was simple.
Instead, he looked at Kim Dokja’s visitor badge, slightly crooked on his coat. He looked at the crumbs on his sleeve. He looked at the tired line of his mouth, the way he held himself like someone used to taking up less space than he needed.
Then he looked at the ceiling tile.
“If you disappear,” Yoo Joonghyuk said, “inform me first.”
Kim Dokja blinked.
“That’s not how disappearing works.”
“Make it work.”
Kim Dokja stared at him for a long moment.
Then his mouth twitched.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes.”
“You know that’s not a compliment?”
“Yes.”
“Do you answer everything like you’re being interrogated?”
“No.”
Kim Dokja waited.
Yoo Joonghyuk waited back.
Kim Dokja sighed. “I walked into that.”
“Yes.”
The door opened.
Han Sooyoung returned carrying three coffees in a cardboard tray and wearing the expression of a woman who had just discovered a new religion and planned to monetize it.
Behind her came Lee Hyunsung, large, kind-eyed, and visibly concerned. He was holding a first aid kit.
“Hyung,” Lee Hyunsung said, “I heard you were attacked by a pigeon.”
Yoo Joonghyuk closed his eyes.
Kim Dokja made a sound dangerously close to a snort.
Han Sooyoung placed the coffees on the table. “I also invited Sangah-ssi from admin to witness the contract, because she’s the only person here who can make paperwork legally binding without summoning demons.”
“I did not agree to witnesses,” Kim Dokja said.
“You agreed to money. Witnesses are free.”
Lee Hyunsung looked at Kim Dokja and bowed politely. “Hello. I’m Lee Hyunsung. Thank you for protecting Joonghyuk-hyung from the pigeon.”
Kim Dokja opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked at Yoo Joonghyuk.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Do not answer.”
Kim Dokja answered anyway. “You’re welcome?”
Lee Hyunsung smiled with genuine relief. “He’s had a hard morning.”
“He’s had a hard life,” Han Sooyoung said.
Yoo Joonghyuk said, “Enough.”
The ceiling tile trembled.
Everyone looked up.
Kim Dokja stepped closer to Yoo Joonghyuk by reflex.
The tile stopped.
Lee Hyunsung whispered, “Amazing.”
Kim Dokja buried his face in both hands. “I hate this.”
Han Sooyoung sipped her coffee. “This entire day sounds like a chapter one.”
“What does that mean?” Kim Dokja asked through his fingers.
“It means you’re doomed.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at Han Sooyoung. “Stop narrating.”
“I will never stop.”
Kim Dokja dropped his hands. “I’m leaving after the contract.”
“Of course,” Han Sooyoung said soothingly. “Everyone says that in chapter one.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not know what she meant.
He understood one thing: the morning had begun with a ceiling leak, escalated through a pigeon incident, and ended with a man named Kim Dokja standing close enough to silence disaster.
This was unacceptable.
This was useful.
This was temporary.
Kim Dokja looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Stop staring.”
“I am thinking.”
“You look like you’re planning to put a tracker on me.”
“Not anymore.”
“Not anymore?”
“It was inefficient.”
Kim Dokja pointed at Han Sooyoung. “Put that in the contract. No trackers.”
Han Sooyoung gave a thumbs-up. “Already there.”
Lee Hyunsung looked horrified. “Why was that already there?”
“Because I know him.”
Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing, because denying it would be less efficient than accepting that Han Sooyoung unfortunately had pattern recognition.
Yoo Sangah arrived five minutes later with a polite smile, a neat stack of forms, and the calm aura of someone who could organize a natural disaster into labeled folders.
She introduced herself to Kim Dokja.
Kim Dokja immediately became ten percent less defensive, which Yoo Joonghyuk noticed and did not resent because resentment would imply interest.
Yoo Sangah reviewed the temporary consulting terms, removed six of Han Sooyoung’s clause titles, added actual legal language, and somehow transformed the phrase Disaster Boyfriend Trial Period into Short-Term Independent Consulting Agreement.
Han Sooyoung mourned the loss.
Kim Dokja read every line.
Yoo Joonghyuk approved.
Not trusting strangers was sensible. Not trusting Yoo Joonghyuk was especially sensible. He knew what he looked like. He knew what he sounded like. He knew that telling someone “stand near me so the universe stops trying to assassinate me” was not a normal hiring pitch.
Kim Dokja signed anyway.
The pen worked.
No ink explosion. No paper cut. No sudden gust of wind carrying the contract out the window and into the mouth of a passing drone.
Yoo Joonghyuk signed next.
His signature came out clean.
Han Sooyoung took a photo “for evidence and blackmail.”
Yoo Sangah gently told her that blackmail was not legally advisable.
Han Sooyoung said, “Fine, memories.”
At 10:14 a.m., Kim Dokja stood to leave.
Yoo Joonghyuk stood too.
Kim Dokja pointed at him. “No.”
“I will escort you downstairs.”
“That sounds like following but in a suit.”
“The building is dangerous.”
“For me or for you?”
“Yes.”
Kim Dokja stared.
Then he sighed. “Fine. But after the lobby, you stop.”
“Agreed.”
They walked to the elevator together.
Han Sooyoung trailed behind them because she had no shame. Lee Hyunsung trailed behind Han Sooyoung because he was worried. Yoo Sangah trailed behind Lee Hyunsung because she was carrying the signed contract and probably wanted to make sure no one died before lunch.
The group reached the elevator.
The doors opened.
Kim Dokja stepped in.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped in beside him.
Han Sooyoung tried to step in too.
The elevator made a warning beep.
Han Sooyoung looked offended. “Rude.”
Yoo Joonghyuk pressed the lobby button.
The doors closed on Han Sooyoung’s grin.
Inside, the elevator descended smoothly.
Kim Dokja leaned against the wall, arms folded.
“You’re really going to pay six million for one week?”
“Yes.”
“You’re terrible with money.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It is an investment.”
“In not being attacked by birds?”
“Yes.”
Kim Dokja’s mouth twitched. “Okay. Fair.”
The elevator reached the lobby.
The doors opened.
They walked past security.
The guard nodded politely.
Outside the building, the weather had cleared. Sunlight reflected off the glass facade, the sidewalks were drying, and the city moved with suspicious kindness.
Kim Dokja stopped at the curb.
“This is where you stop.”
Yoo Joonghyuk stopped.
Kim Dokja turned to face him.
For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Yoo Joonghyuk was aware of the exact distance between them: approximately one point two meters. Close enough, based on current data, to maintain protection. Far enough to be socially acceptable.
Kim Dokja adjusted the strap of his plastic bag around his wrist, though it was empty now.
“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “What time?”
“Seven.”
Kim Dokja looked personally betrayed by the concept of seven. “Eight.”
“Seven.”
“Eight.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Seven-forty.”
“Seven-forty-five.”
Yoo Joonghyuk considered.
“Fine.”
Kim Dokja blinked. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Wow. Negotiation works on you.”
“Do not become arrogant.”
“I’m becoming incredibly arrogant.”
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him.
Kim Dokja smiled.
Yoo Joonghyuk’s mental spreadsheet crashed.
From above, something whistled through the air.
Kim Dokja’s eyes widened.
Yoo Joonghyuk moved on instinct, stepping forward and pulling Kim Dokja by the sleeve.
A small object hit the pavement where Kim Dokja had been standing.
They both looked down.
It was a pigeon feather.
Just a feather.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked up.
On the edge of the building across the street sat a pigeon.
The pigeon stared at him.
Yoo Joonghyuk stared back.
Kim Dokja looked between them. “Is that the strong pigeon?”
“No.”
“How can you tell?”
“I know my enemies.”
Kim Dokja’s lips trembled.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m experiencing joy internally.”
“Stop.”
“No.”
The pigeon took flight.
Yoo Joonghyuk watched it go.
Kim Dokja gently pulled his sleeve free from Yoo Joonghyuk’s hand.
Yoo Joonghyuk released him immediately.
For a second, neither of them mentioned it.
Then Kim Dokja said, “Thanks.”
“It was a feather.”
“I know.”
“It would not have harmed you.”
“Probably.”
“Then why thank me?”
Kim Dokja looked away. “Practice.”
Yoo Joonghyuk did not know what to do with that.
The world was still calm around them. Suspiciously calm. A bus stopped properly at the curb. A cyclist used the bike lane. A dog walked by and did not attempt assassination against Yoo Joonghyuk. The automatic doors behind them opened and closed without malice.
Kim Dokja stepped back.
The calm thinned.
Across the street, a car horn blared. Somewhere overhead, metal creaked.
Kim Dokja noticed.
His expression twisted.
“Don’t look like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like a sad abandoned refrigerator.”
Yoo Joonghyuk said nothing.
Kim Dokja sighed. “Tomorrow. Seven-forty-five. Text me the address.”
“I need your number.”
Kim Dokja stared. “Right.”
They exchanged numbers.
Kim Dokja saved him as something Yoo Joonghyuk could not see.
Yoo Joonghyuk saved him as Kim Dokja.
Then, after a moment, he added: Consultant.
Then he deleted Consultant.
Then he added nothing.
Kim Dokja said, “Why did you just stare at your phone like it insulted your bloodline?”
“It did not.”
“Okay.”
Yoo Joonghyuk put his phone away.
Kim Dokja lifted one hand in an awkward half-wave. “Don’t get crushed by anything before tomorrow.”
“I will try.”
“That sounded less reassuring than I wanted.”
“Reality is often disappointing.”
“There’s that face again.”
Kim Dokja turned and walked away.
Yoo Joonghyuk watched him go.
One meter became three.
Three became five.
At eight meters, a delivery cyclist’s handlebar clipped a trash can, sending it wobbling toward Yoo Joonghyuk.
At ten meters, the trash can tipped.
At twelve meters, a gust of wind caught a discarded flyer and slapped it against Yoo Joonghyuk’s face.
He removed it.
The flyer read: ARE YOU TIRED OF BAD LUCK? TRY OUR NEW HEALING CRYSTAL MASSAGE!
Yoo Joonghyuk crumpled it in his fist.
Kim Dokja, already halfway down the block, turned around as if he had sensed the nonsense through some newly established employee bond.
He saw Yoo Joonghyuk holding the crumpled flyer.
Even from a distance, Yoo Joonghyuk could see him laughing.
The trash can fell over.
A pigeon landed on it.
Yoo Joonghyuk looked at the pigeon.
The pigeon looked back.
Tomorrow, he thought, would begin at seven-forty-five.
He had secured a temporary solution.
He had stabilized the variable.
He had not, under any circumstances, acquired a lucky charm.
Kim Dokja disappeared around the corner.
The pigeon opened its beak.
Yoo Joonghyuk stepped aside before the attack could land.
The universe, spiteful but briefly outmaneuvered, settled for dropping the flyer into a puddle.
Yoo Joonghyuk adjusted his cuff, turned back toward the building, and walked inside with the rigid dignity of a man who had survived the morning through discipline, money, and one strange, mouthy person in a gray hoodie.
Behind him, the revolving door spun smoothly once.
Then jammed immediately after he exited it.
Yoo Joonghyuk did not look back.
He had a contract now.
And tomorrow, for exactly one week, the universe would have to negotiate.