Chapter 50: River Rising
The emergency klaxon faded to a mournful pulse at five minutes past midnight, leaving only the swollen hiss of rain—and the river's deeper growl somewhere beyond the rooftops. From the café's drenched parapet Seo-yeon could just make out the flood-gauge stanchion on the opposite bank: a pale ruler struck through by street-lamp glare. The red band that marked seven-and-a-half metres—evacuation watch—was already swallowed. Water licked the eight-metre mark like a dog testing a fence.
"Seven-point-six and climbing," Yang Joon-woo read from Min-ji's encrypted ping. Wind pressed his poncho flat, outlining the sling that steadied his shoulder. "We've done what we can up here. You need sleep."
She wanted to argue—sleep felt like betrayal while the river prowled—but her limbs trembled with furnace-cold fatigue, and the candle flame in the workshop below had begun to blur. Joon-woo caught the wobble in her stance and tipped his head toward the storage loft.
"Two hours," he said. "I'll set an alarm. Candle's still burning, generator's humming. That's enough sentries for now."
They climbed the narrow stairwell that smelled of burlap and wet plywood. The loft roof angled like a tent over bags of rice and salvaged cushions. Joon-woo found a military blanket, shook stray nails from it, and spread it across a makeshift cot of bean sacks. Under a single battery lantern the world shrank to pockets of amber warmth amid the timber.
"You take the blanket," she insisted.
He raised an eyebrow. "We'll share, accountant."
Neither spoke again. They lay back-to-back, knees politely bent, the blanket tug-of-warred into détente. Outside, the generator thrummed like a far-off drum and the candle's pine-resin scent wandered up the stairwell. Seo-yeon counted the beats—one, two, three, four, five—until thought dissolved and sleep poured in.
Rain. Not here, not now—rain from another night, sharper, colder, a thousand needles tatting a dark river's surface. Headlights smeared the bridge rails white; a sedan fishtailed, metal shrieking against wet asphalt. Inside that car the banker's face was blue in the dashboard glow, mouth shaping words she could never quite hear.
She was running—slipping—knees skinning on concrete. Her hands pressed against his sternum, counting compressions that refused to summon breath. One-and-two-and, the night tore open in sirens and slick crimson.
Verify the policy… The banker bled the sentence between cracked lips, pupils blown wide—but thunder swallowed the rest. Water hammered her shoulders until she could not feel her own heartbeat.
A lantern winked above him, swaying on an unseen beam. No—Ha-eun. Light with a voice soft as moth wings.
You're remembering, Ha-eun said, her tone neither proud nor pitying. That means you're alive. Keep going or wake now—choice is yours.
Wind howled through the torn car door. Seo-yeon chose waking.
She shot upright on the bean sacks, breath burning. For half a second the loft's shadows became twisted metal before reality snapped into place. Joon-woo knelt beside her, cloth dripping cool water onto her nape, his own eyes wide with sleepless worry.
"Bad dream?" he murmured.
She nodded, unable to trust her voice. He guided her hand to her chest, matching her fingers to the borrowed five-beat rhythm he'd learned by observation. In, hold, and out—until her ribs no longer rattled.
Their hands stayed joined longer than necessary. Night pressed close, thick with words neither dared voice. Then her phone buzzed between them, a harsh mechanical trill. Investigator Cho: Friendly reminder—awaiting full cash-flow by 18:00. The timestamp glowed: 02:42.
The decimal space between them re-opened. She swallowed. "Duty never sleeps."
"Neither does water," he answered, releasing her fingers. "Come on—levee patrol."
Portable floodlights threw stark silver over the makeshift wall of sandbags along the riverside street. Water slapped the stone embankment three metres below, each surge higher than the last. Madam Kang directed a chain of volunteers with clipped commands; Min-ji's voice pinged updates through earbud radios—secure channel this time.
"Gauge at seven-point-seven," she reported from some rain-lashed vantage point. "No overtopping yet."
Seo-yeon hefted a fifty-kilo bag with Joon-woo and slotted it into the sagging corner. Mud sucked at their boots; thunder rolled overhead like shifting artillery. Sweat and rain blurred together, stinging her eyes. Yet here, with her body working and the numbers out of her head, she felt almost calm.
A hiss cut through the night—that unmistakable whistle of pressure. Seo-yeon noticed first: water spouting from a street-drain grate behind the café, a thin but insistent fountain.
"Backflow!" she shouted.
Joon-woo sprinted to the shed, emerged with lengths of food-grade espresso hose, and jammed one end through the grate, the other out toward the storm gutter that still flowed downhill. He signaled Seo-yeon; together they stomped sandbags around the makeshift siphon until the pressure redirected. The fountain faltered, became a trickle.
In the temporary lull they leaned against the wall, laughing breathlessly—two marathoners at mile forty-two—rain plastering hair to their foreheads.
"Add 'coffee-house plumbing' to your résumé," she said.
"Espresso saves lives," he replied, eyes shining in the floodlights' glare.
Gray light seeped under the café's door. Inside, the crew slumped at tables littered with chipped mugs. The espresso they drank tasted of grounds stretched too thin, but no one complained. Yujin's voice crackled over radio: "Flu-like cases up 20 %. Boil all water. Copy?"
"Copy," Seo-yeon answered, jotting a bold directive for the café's front door: BOIL NOTICE IN EFFECT—FREE HOT WATER AVAILABLE.
Madam Kang rubbed stiff fingers. "We close until noon. Staff naps in shifts. Joon-woo, keep that generator purring."
He nodded, though his eyelids fluttered like tired moths.
The plywood housing gleamed damply, but no water seeped inside. While Joon-woo tightened bolts, Seo-yeon traced the wood grain, feeling the engine's pulse through her fingertips.
He cleared his throat. "About earlier—your dream."
She looked at the river beyond the alley, muddy and inexorable. "It was the bridge night. I remember more each time. I… couldn't save him." The words tasted of iron but came easier than she expected. "I'll tell it all—just not while the river's still talking."
He studied her, rain dripping from his fringe. "Then I'll wait until it shuts up." A gentle promise, nothing more, yet it filled her lungs fuller than any breath count.
A breeze slid through the alley and snuffed the pine candle inside the workshop
Back in the office the monitor light painted her face a wan blue. She attached Spiral_Ledger_v2, double-checked that personal salaries were redacted per counsel's instructions, and hovered over send. Outside, the river grumbled like a belly against its belt.
Ha-eun's voice floated up, calm as distant bells. Clicking the button won't drown you, little navigator.
Seo-yeon exhaled and pressed.
The email spun away into the ether.
A second siren peeled—angrier, unbroken. Min-ji's message popped: Gauge 7.9—danger. Thunder answered, closer than before.
Seo-yeon rose, spine straight despite the tremor in her knees. "Time to move every bag higher," she called to whoever could hear.
Joon-woo appeared in the doorway, rain jacket already zipped. Their eyes met—agreement spoken without syllables. Together they pushed into the corridor, toward the groan of river and generator, the scent of wet earth, and a morning that promised no mercy.
High-water morning, Seo-yeon thought, as the first true light of day guttered behind clouds. But mornings still count—one, two, three, four, five—and begin again.
Chapter 51: Cracks in the Decking
The night's floodwater drained from Mount Valley like coffee from a cracked filter, slow and gritty, leaving silt and the faint stench of riverweed in its wake. By 07 : 15 a wan sun hovered behind cloud tatters, and volunteers heaved sodden sandbags off the café terrace. Each time a weight thudded onto the warped hardwood, the boards answered with a low groan—a weary animal refusing to stand.
Lee Seo-yeon braced a muddy boot against the balustrade. Her body hummed with equal parts caffeine and exhaustion; two hours' loft-sleep had only teased the edge of rest. Still, the sirens had quieted, Cho's digital receipt sat in her inbox, and the river gauge—thank every ledger line—had dipped below seven-eight.
Then she heard the crack.
A splintering pop, sharp as snapped bone, shot beneath the terrace. A fissure raced across the outermost plank, splitting its varnish like dried sugar glaze. The board sagged. Seo-yeon's stomach copied the motion.
"Decking's giving up," she called. Her voice sounded distant in her own ears.
Yang Joon-woo limped over the puddled tiles, sling darkened with rainwater. "I'll rope it off—"
Too late.
Councillor Han—pressed slacks, festival-committee lanyard still clipped to his breast pocket—stepped onto the market platform to inspect the river, oblivious to the warning tape Joon-woo had only half-strung. Wood rebounded, then surrendered. The plank split with a brittle snap. Han lurched, ankle twisting sideways, briefcase flying like a startled gull.
Gasps rippled along the street; a collective wince followed. Seo-yeon rushed forward, but Park Yujin was faster, steadying Han by the elbow and guiding him to a chair that wobbled in the mud.
The councillor's grimace said more than his clenched teeth. Town morale, already waterlogged, sagged one notch further.
Inside the café, the air smelled of antiseptic and burnt espresso. Yujin wrapped Han's ankle while Madam Kang paced behind the bar, arms crossed tight.
"This wouldn't have happened," Kang hissed, "if people hadn't rushed construction to chase viral fame." Her glare touched Min-ji's empty filming rig, then flicked accusingly to Joon-woo.
Joon-woo's jaw tightened; his slinged shoulder shook once. "We used treated lumber. Flood soaked it through—no one could predict the river would climb that high."
Kang opened her mouth, anger poised, but Seo-yeon stepped between them, palms up. "Assigning blame won't lift the deck. We need an audit, not an argument." The words emerged calmer than she felt—five-beat breath doing its quiet work.
Kang exhaled, tension bleeding from her shoulders. "Fine. Audit first. Coffee later."
Under the platform the crawlspace smelled of rot and diesel. Seo-yeon crouched, headlamp haloing warped support beams gone soft as stale sponge cake. She tapped one: water droplets oozed from a hairline seam.
"Sixty percent waterlogged," Joon-woo muttered, scribbling numbers despite the shake in his injured arm. "We'll need new joists, stainless brackets, anti-fungal seal. Call it six hundred thousand won and thirty hours—minimum."
Above them the planks ticked as they dried—tiny clocks counting down to collapse.
Town-hall fluorescents hummed overhead, cruel against sleepless eyes. Councillor Han, ankle bandaged but dignity intact, leaned on a cane as he addressed Seo-yeon, Joon-woo, and Madam Kang.
"Heritage Festival opens in seventy-two hours," he said. "If that decking isn't certified safe, your stall—and the café's power-demonstration—are out."
The decree landed like another crack. Festival revenue had been the hope line in Seo-yeon's latest spreadsheet; without it, their buffer would dissolve faster than river silt.
She forced herself to nod. "We'll meet the deadline."
Han raised an eyebrow, doubtful yet strangely relieved, and hobbled off to his next emergency.
Outside, Min-ji perched on an overturned paint bucket, livestreaming a wide shot of damaged boards. Chat bubbles burst across her phone: Disaster tourism?Maybe fix it instead of filming?Rubber-neckers go home.
A stone of shame dropped into Seo-yeon's chest. She tapped Min-ji's shoulder. "Pause the feed."
"But people want updates—"
"Updates, yes. Spectacle, no." Seo-yeon angled the camera to her own face. "Mount Valley's rebuilding. We'll share progress after we listen to what the community needs." She ended the stream, then leaned close. "MV-Ops stays private today; cameras stay off unless everyone agrees. Understood?"
Min-ji swallowed hard, then nodded. Lesson etched, loyalty upgraded.
Rain-swollen clouds threatened but did not burst as volunteers crammed into the tool shed. The whiteboard wobbled under Seo-yeon's marker strokes: Shift A (noon–18 : 00), Shift B (18 : 00–02 : 00), Shift C (02 : 00–deadline). She allocated remaining buffer funds—six-hundred-eighty thousand won—toward lumber, screws, and rental supports. Numbers stabbed clean lines; doubt oozed between them.
Joon-woo, shirt now streaked with sawdust, suggested a cross-brace pattern to distribute weight and demoed it on scrap plywood. Even with his injured arm he handled the pencil like a conductor's baton, sketching arcs of possibility across fatigue-gray faces.
A murmur of approval rolled through the shed. For the first time that morning, the air felt a shade lighter.
On the stairwell landing reality caught up with Seo-yeon. Knees buckled; the world guttered sideways. Joon-woo's uninjured arm shot out, bracing her against the rail.
"Hey—easy."
Close—too close. She could count sawdust flecks in his eyelashes. Breath tangled in her throat, words fighting to surface.
I need you here.
The river dream was worse than I said.
I think I—
Her phone vibrated: Supplier—REGRET TO INFORM landslide has delayed freight truck; generator revised ETA +5 days.
The confession shattered before it formed. She gave a short, burnt laugh. "Of course."
Joon-woo's eyes darkened. "We'll improvise again. Sparks and all." A grin flickered, half apology, half promise.
She drew one steadying breath, then another. "Back to work."
Hammers rang across the decking like determined bells. Madam Kang emerged with a tray of Lemon-Ice Afternoons, condensation trailing down glass like new hope. Volunteers accepted the drinks with tired smiles; citrus fizz crackled against their tongues, bright and bracing.
The first replacement beam slid into place under Joon-woo's guidance. Seo-yeon drove the lag bolt home; the impact reverberated up her arms and across the river, an echo loud enough to be heard by any lingering doubt.
She leaned on the drill, sweat and rain mixing on her forehead, and allowed herself one heartbeat of optimism. Seventy-one hours to go. Cracks could be mended—on planks, on ledgers, in weary human spirits—if enough hands and enough heart aligned.
From upriver came a distant rumble of falling soil—another landslide, perhaps, or just thunder remembering its script. Either way, the hammer in her hand felt solid, the decking beneath her boots felt steadier, and the next chapter of work—of sparks, confessions, and tests yet unimagined—waited on the far side of one more swing.
She raised the tool, the volunteers' laughter crested behind her, and drove the second bolt home.
Chapter 52: Matcha & Myth
Rain pattered like soft scales on the library's skylight, each droplet sliding across glass then vanishing—one smooth stroke after another—until the whole pane glittered like a serpent's hide. Nestled in the mezzanine alcove, Lee Seo-yeon hunched over a stack of folklore anthologies, their cloth spines breathing dust and cedar oil. Below, distant hammer-blows echoed from the riverfront decking, but here the hush was thick enough to muffle guilt and fatigue alike.
She ran a finger beneath an ink illustration: a sinuous creature, four fathoms long, hornless, half-dragon and half-something still searching for wings. Imugi, the caption read, serpent that endures a thousand years before the sky decides if it may ascend.
"Only lightning or steadfast effort can finish the transformation," Ha-eun murmured inside her mind, voice as patient as turning pages.
Lightning—like the blistering crack that split the café's terrace. Steadfast effort—like hammer schedules, breath counts, and ledgers no one else had the stomach to keep. Seo-yeon pressed her pen to a blank page of her notebook and, beside the latest expense column, doodled a coil—its mouth pointed toward a jagged line of sky.
Half-formed, she wrote. But climbing.
The café kitchen smelled of wet lumber and sugar scrubbed from mugs. Yang Joon-woo balanced a bamboo whisk between stiff fingers; despite the sling, he beat powdered matcha into hot water until emerald foam curled like miniature river eddies. His face tightened each time the whisk jerked, pain threading through muscle.
"Here," Seo-yeon said, stepping behind him. She wrapped her hand over his, guiding rhythm—small rotations, steady breath. Whisk tines whooshed, drawing circles that thickened the green. For a moment neither spoke; their joined hands moved as a single metronome, and the storm outside seemed to hush so it could listen.
"I was thinking," she said softly, "a drink for the festival—matcha base for earth, yuzu foam for cloud, chocolate drizzle for lightning. Call it the Imugi Latte."
"A half-dragon that tastes like spring." Joon-woo's grin crooked, lopsided from exhaustion yet bright. "We'll make believers of them."
He finished the whisking, shoulders relaxing under her steadied grip, then let her pour the first test shot. The color glowed jade, hopeful against stainless steel.
Madam Kang leaned on the service counter, counting invisible coins while the carpenters' nail guns popped outside. Seo-yeon slid the cup forward. Steam spiraled between them like a question mark.
Kang sipped. Yuzu foam brightened her expression; chocolate streak left a faint smudge on her upper lip she didn't bother to wipe. "Name it after that half-dragon," she decided. "You and it both aim higher than people expect."
The compliment landed with the rare weight of a benediction. Kang scribbled Matcha-Imugi onto the festival menu sheet—directly beneath Lemon-Ice Afternoon—and initialed the margin.
Back-office lights flickered as Min-ji recorded a quick, private clip for the MV-Ops channel. "Legend says an imugi must catch lightning to earn its horns," she whispered, phone angled at a closed circle of volunteers. "We're the lightning—every hammer, every whisk."
Emoji dragons flooded the chat. Across town, tired hands gripped nails tighter; sign-ups for night shift climbed within minutes.
Park Yujin intercepted Seo-yeon at the clinic doorway, hair still in disarray from triage rounds.
"Green tea reduces inflammation," she reported, thrusting a print-out into Seo-yeon's palm. "Convince your carpenters to drink two cups; maybe they'll stop showing me splinters like battle trophies."
Seo-yeon laughed—an exhale she hadn't known she'd been holding—and tucked the sheet beside her doodled serpent.
Hammer echoes muted to background taps while she updated the contingency sheet in the toolshed. Lumber credit: ₩180 000. Disposable cups and yuzu purée: ₩32 000. Buffer: ₩198 400 and shrinking. She drew a tiny serpent in the margin, curling toward a penciled thundercloud—and, beside it, a copper lightning strike ready to descend.
Hold on, she told the sketch. The sky isn't done.
Orange light pooled across the newly braced decking. River mud still crusted the rocks below, but the water line had retreated, leaving the wood dry and surprisingly strong underfoot. Volunteers circled with paper cups of the first official Matcha-Imugi Latte; yuzu clouds clung to rims, and swirls of dark chocolate crackled their surfaces like small captured storms.
Councillor Han paused on the ramp, cane planted, eyebrow raised in silent inquiry. Joon-woo handed him a cup. Han tasted, then—reluctantly—nodded once, as though acknowledging a rival's respectable move on a chessboard.
Saws quieted. The river caught the last of the sun and threw it back as bronze ribbons. Seo-yeon let the warmth of foam and citrus settle in her chest; fatigue eased, leaving only a humming anticipation she refused to name yet.
Joon-woo nudged her shoulder. "Lightning drink, deck half-fixed, spirits stable. Tomorrow night we test the temporary generator. Think the sky will cooperate?"
She remembered Ha-eun's whisper: Lightning or steadfast effort. Seo-yeon raised her cup, catching the river's glow. "If the lightning comes, we'll be ready to catch it."
He tapped his cup against hers—cardboard meeting cardboard, promise meeting promise. Below, the hammering resumed—rhythmic, certain—carving a path toward dawn and the sparks that waited on the other side.
Chapter 53: Insurance Shadow
The hammers began their dawn cadence, each strike ringing across the river like a ticking clock. By ten o'clock the rebuilt decking felt almost solid underfoot, but every thud still rattled Lee Seo-yeon's ribs. She checked the spiral ledger on her tablet: another delivery of screws, another plank of treated pine, another dip below the ₩200 000 line. Buffer: ₩184 770 and falling—as fragile as the plywood they were replacing.
A fresh bolt slammed home. Hammer-beat, heart-beat, ledger-beat.
Inside the café, espresso hissed over the smell of wet lumber and sawdust that clung to every apron like damp glitter. The doorbell chimed and a man stepped through, raincoat immaculate, slick with a sheen that reflected the matcha-green menu board. Droplets slipped from the brim of his umbrella onto the floor, forming neat, deliberate circles—as tidy as the man himself. He ordered a plain Americano—no sugar, no milk—and waited with the stillness of a blade laid flat, dark eyes cataloguing the room the way a surveyor notes cracks in a wall.
Min-ji, drying cups, froze mid-polish. Investigator Cho! she typed into the MV-Ops channel. Her phone vibrated with the silent acknowledgement pings of crew members on ladders and under deck joists.
Cho accepted his cup, tasted once, and let the steam fog his glasses before tugging them off with a pocket square's precision. A winter-thin smile creased his lips. "Could I have a word with Madam Kang?"
The question sounded like a prearranged verdict.
The office door clicked shut, sealing Cho and Madam Kang inside with only the blinking green LED of the router for company. The cramped room smelled of ink ribbon and scorched coffee—a scent that always reminded Kang of pre-dawn ledger sessions in Seo-yeon's parents' era. Through the thin partition Seo-yeon heard the investigator's voice—polite, clipped—as steady as the silver pen that tapped against his notebook.
"Remarkable revenues for a small café," he said. Tap-tap. "First, the 'Resurrection' posts. Then your Lemon-Ice surge. Now the Matcha-Imugi sales spike."
"We're adaptable," Kang replied, tone even though her fingers laced so tightly the knuckles blanched.
"Adaptable," Cho repeated, tasting the word, "can resemble opportunistic if petty-cash slips disappear." Tap-tap.
A fluorescent bulb overhead buzzed, underscoring the silence that followed.
Seo-yeon's fists clenched on the ledger, knuckles whitening. Ha-eun whispered, Breathe through it, little navigator. She inhaled the pine sealant drifting from the deck, cool and resinous, held four beats, exhaled five. Still, the pen's rhythm hammered like distant artillery.
Min-ji crouched outside the door, knees biting against the cold floor tiles, phone in standby—not streaming, just recording to encrypted memory. Cho's voice, muffled, glided through the crack beneath the door:
"Insurance pays out when dragons drown, Ms Kang. Revenue spikes can look like rain that came too conveniently."
The phrase slithered under Min-ji's skin. She sent the audio snippet to Seo-yeon with the caption dragon = us? Myth twisted into menace. Seo-yeon's Matcha-Imugi optimism tightened into a coil but did not snap.
The storage loft reeked of aging burlap and spent diesel. Dust motes pirouetted in shafts of attic light while a low generator hum vibrated the boards. Seo-yeon and Joon-woo knelt beside the petty-cash box, its lid gaping like a knocked-out tooth. Receipts lay in neat bundles—except for a fist-wide gap exposing bare corrugated metal.
"Three-hundred-fifty thousand won," Joon-woo counted, voice low, fingers brushing the void as if it might bite. "That's the hole."
A draught slid through a loose plank, fluttering the edges of the remaining receipts like guilty confetti. Seo-yeon ran shaking fingers over the missing stack. One more crack in foundations Cho was eager to probe.
Fear surged—asset freeze, hearings, headlines—conjuring the metallic taste of failure. Beside her, Joon-woo's presence felt like rebar inside wet concrete. "We'll reconcile," he promised, the grit in his voice steadying her heartbeat. "Cracks show where to pour strength."
They found Kang on the back stairwell, paint peeling beneath the handrail's once-polished brass. Morning drizzle ghosted through the half-open door and silvered the tips of her hair.
"I gave cash advances," she said before Seo-yeon could speak, words tumbling out on a breath she'd held too long. "Staff couldn't afford overdraft fees after the flood shifts. I meant to log it later."
"Later is now," Seo-yeon answered gently, soft but immovable. "We'll label them payroll advances—transparent and signed."
Kang's breath trembled like a snapped harp string. "Your parents trusted me with this place. I can't let it drown you too."
Seo-yeon set her ledger tablet aside and placed a hand over Kang's—skin warm, pulse frantic. Surrogate daughter, surrogate mother—two halves bracing each other's fractures. "We patch decks; we can patch books," she said, and the words felt truer than the oak beneath their feet.
The clinic corridor smelled of iodine and menthol rub. Park Yujin's scrubs were flecked with sawdust and green tea powder—souvenirs from triage rounds. She thrust a sealed envelope into Seo-yeon's hands.
"Official treatment logs," she said, her voice hoarse. "Original timestamps, physician stamps. Nobody forged a thing. Give Cho science to chew on so he stops snacking on rumor."
The envelope was warm from Yujin's pocket, its heft an unexpected comfort—like a shield made of paper.
Cho stepped onto the café's granite stoop just as drizzle thickened into a soft curtain. Not a droplet clung to his raincoat. "Thank you for your candor, Madam Kang." He passed her a cream envelope that smelled faintly of printer ink. "Ms Lee's formal deposition—Seoul District Court, eighteen days."
His gaze swept the half-repaired deck. Rain glazed the new beams, reflecting ghost-images of workers above. "Storms reveal foundation cracks," he said, as though reciting a proverb only he knew. Then he tipped his paper cup in farewell, espresso long gone cold, and strode into the gloom, the slick cobblestones mirroring his departure.
Kang's hand shook around the envelope. Seo-yeon took it, spine setting like green lumber drying in the sun. "Foundations can be reinforced," she said—more a vow than reassurance—as Cho's silhouette dissolved into rain.
The generator shed vibrated with the low rumble of the temporary unit—a squat blue beast exhaling diesel-warm breath into the chill air. A single work lamp threw gold across Joon-woo's profile, highlighting sawdust still clinging to his hair. He twisted the final coupling with a grunt.
"Midnight load test," he confirmed. "If it passes, deck inspection gets power for floodlights and the festival crew relaxes."
Seo-yeon inhaled the tang of fuel, felt dread loosen a notch. "Midnight," she echoed. "I'll bring updated ledgers—and lightning, if the sky agrees."
A raindrop traced Joon-woo's temple. He wiped moisture—and a speck of grime—from her cheek with a knuckle roughened by work, the touch as light as a promise. "Whatever cracks he thinks he's found, we'll fill them."
Their breath mingled in the cool air—promise forged without sparks… yet. Behind them the repaired boards thudded under volunteer boots, each hammer blow answering Cho's ominous pen-tap with a sturdier rhythm.
Night—and copper sparks—waited just beyond the storm's edge.
Chapter 54 – Three-Tap Storm
23 : 58 found the riverbank air tight with ozone, as if the clouds were holding a charged breath. Under makeshift flood-lights, copper bus bars glimmered like freshly shed dragon scales while Yang Joon-woo crouched at the generator panel, muscles trembling beneath surgical tape. One final lug refused to seat. He bared his teeth, locked the wrench, and the copper snapped home with a satisfied clack that vibrated through the decking.
Lee Seo-yeon, hood drawn, logged the target amperage on a rain-freckled spreadsheet. Every droplet that spattered her screen looked like an accusation: buffer low, books in flux, inspection at dawn. Yet the deck beneath her boots—four thousand volunteer screws deep—felt steady. She lifted her gaze to the copper coils glittering in the flood-lights and told herself they were promise, not peril.
"Ready?" Joon-woo asked.
"Light it," she said, voice steadyer than she felt.
The generator coughed, found breath, and roared. Bulbs along the railing flared white. A cheer rose—half elation, half relief—then a violent pop! punctured the night. Darkness swarmed back. The breaker had tripped; thunder answered overhead, rolling across the valley like barrels down stairs.
Adrenaline slammed into Seo-yeon's bloodstream. Instinct drove her thumb to her left wrist—tap, tap—seeking that third strike that would surrender control. Rain hammered tarps, amplifying her pulse until sound and heartbeat were the same drum. She hovered on the edge of the final tap.
Remember—don't erase, Ha-eun whispered, voice calm as distant bells. Lightning strobed beyond the riverbank, illuminating the copper rails, the skeletal deck, the faces waiting for her cue. Dragons learn to ride the storm by feeling every scale.
Seo-yeon inhaled: one-two-three-four—held—exhaled five. Storm-metal taste left her tongue; thoughts cleared to copper-bright purpose.
"Isolate the fault," she called. "Feed line B only—drop the decorative circuits." Orders snapped through the dark like flares. Volunteers scrambled; one by one breakers reset, and light flowed back, steadier, contained.
Cheers rippled again—rougher, but real.
For the first time she had stopped the third tap mid-swing. The wrist beneath her thumb throbbed, alive.
A jagged fork of true lightning split the sky, its reflection racing the length of the polished bus bar. Joon-woo's hand brushed across hers as they both reached for the live tester—static leapt skin to skin, sparks blue-white. Their faces hung inches apart, eyes wide at the shared jolt. Rain hissed between them like crowd noise muted behind glass.
Not yet, his glance said.
Soon, hers replied.
Thunder growled; copper sang.
When the deck settled back into generator hum, Seo-yeon leaned against a rail slick with rain. Ha-eun's presence glimmered in the periphery, lantern-soft.
Dragons face rivers that drowned them, the guardian murmured.
"The bridge." Seo-yeon spoke aloud though no one else could hear the prompt. "Tomorrow after the inspection—I'm going back."
Resolve cooled on her skin like mist; strange, how anchored it felt.
01 : 00. Beneath the deck, Madam Kang crouched with a torque wrench, verifying every bolt while Min-ji filmed on a lens capped for privacy. "Internal only," the barista muttered, labelling footage before locking it into the encrypted vault. Park Yujin shone a penlight into Seo-yeon's pupils, counted pulse, and nodded approval. "Breathwork's doing its job," she said. "Leader clears her own storm—crew sleeps easier."
Kang signed the final checklist with a shaking yet deliberate flourish. "Inspector arrives at six. Four hours' shut-eye, people."
Wood creaked as the volunteers dispersed, boots scuffing in exhaustion that tasted almost like triumph.
04 : 45. Dawn seeped in pale layers across a river still swollen but subdued. The temporary generator thrummed, its exhaust a thin ribbon in cool air. Deck lights glowed amber, casting unmoving halos on puddles that mirrored a sky rinsing itself of night. Seo-yeon stood alone at the railing, fingertips resting over the radial beat beneath her wrist—no taps, only a calm, rhythmic promise.
Beyond the far bank, low clouds parted just enough to reveal a sliver of sunlight. Copper rails caught the first beam, flashing gold before settling into quiet readiness for the test still to come.
Behind her, the café slept in hard-won silence; ahead, dawn inspection and whatever sparks might follow waited with charged patience.
She breathed in, slow and deep, tasting diesel, rain, and the faint citrus memory of yuzu foam—then let the breath go, carrying the night's storm away with it.
Chapter 55: K-Pop Busking Boost
The post-inspection quiet lasted less than an hour. By 08 : 30 the café bar was once again a hive, but instead of drills and torque wrenches it thrummed with the giddy click-clack of Min-ji's fingernails on her phone, like cicadas reborn in acrylic. Steam curled lazily from a forgotten kettle, painting translucent ribbons between the hanging mugs; the air smelled of espresso oils, fresh sawdust, and the faint citrus ghost of yesterday's yuzu foam.
"Emergency money spell," she blurted, cheeks flushed latte-pink and eyes sparking the way sugar does when it hits a hot pan. "We turn the deck into a K-pop stage—today. Local cover crews are on standby for festival rehearsals anyway. We sell drink tokens, set out tip jars, safe-stream inside MV-Ops—no leaks to the trolls."
Across the bar, Lee Seo-yeon's mind flicked through open ledgers and dwindling buffer numbers the way a gambler flips worry beads. ₩184 770 would vanish the moment another invoice arrived; she could almost feel Investigator Cho's cool gaze sliding over every unexplained won. Yet Min-ji's hope-bright grin glowed brighter than the LED strip above the grinder. Dragons dance before they fly, Ha-eun had whispered during last night's storm. Why not let them dance on brand-new lumber?
"Do it," Seo-yeon said, tasting adrenaline on the word's edge. "We launch at noon."
The words tasted reckless—and exactly right.
By ten o'clock the market plaza looked as if a festival had exploded in fast-forward. Volunteers looped warm fairy lights between deck posts; the tiny bulbs winked in the pale sun, each reflection a miniature spark on the freshly varnished boards. Copper speaker cables snaked across the planks, twining like braids in a river-mermaid's hair. Joon-woo, shoulder still taped yet looser now, knelt beside the blue temporary generator. Diesel breath and pine resin mingled as he routed surge-protected lines, pausing every few minutes to stretch aching tendons. Each time he glanced toward Seo-yeon he carried the expression of someone watching a blossom force its way through concrete—equal parts disbelief and delight.
A chalk-dust haze floated around the sandwich board where Min-ji doodled neon stars around the SET LIST—Butter • Dynamite • Hype Boy. The river, recently a snarling adversary, now drifted past with languid applause, its surface stippled by the breeze.
At 12 : 15 the bassline of BTS's "Butter" rolled through town like a sun-warmed tide, thunking against storefront windows and echoing beneath the new deck. Min-ji burst onto the planks in lemon-yellow sneakers and a café tee she'd hacked into a crop, glitter sticker still clinging to one sleeve. Backup dancers spun behind her, sneakers skidding in precise synchrony. The crowd widened like paint dropped into water—office workers with convenience-store dosirak, students in rumpled uniforms, tourists seduced by the scent of caramelizing espresso and the metallic shimmer of tweeters.
Behind the bar Seo-yeon's hands became a disciplined storm: tamp, pull, fizz, pour. Double shots hissed into tonic; matcha clouds—emerald under fairy lights—billowed over cups. The POS tracker pinged with manic regularity; each chime ironed another crease from Madam Kang's brow.
When Min-ji hit the final shoulder shimmy, confetti cannons MacGyvered from empty coffee-bean sacks erupted, puffing biodegradable gold over the dancers. Children squealed, chasing the flecks like fireflies; phones rose until the deck looked planted in a techno-forest of tiny glowing leaves.
At 13 : 00 a ruby LED on the amp flared. Feedback shrieked—metal claws across every eardrum—making even the river flinch. Baristas froze mid-pour. Joon-woo launched forward, ponytail whipping, and yanked the mains. One heartbeat of stunned silence; then he slammed a battery pack into place, flipped a switch, and music cascaded back before the audience could exhale. A roar of appreciation crashed against the quay; relief radiated from Joon-woo's grin straight into Seo-yeon's bloodstream.
Backstage, sweat beaded like dew on Min-ji's collarbones. She clipped a fifteen-second highlight—knee-slide into finger-heart—trimmed, color-popped, and posted with Kang's curt nod. As she swiped send, the fairy lights reflected in her pupils like twin fireworks. Within an hour the view counter ticked past ten thousand; a regional news anchor tweeted the clip with the caption "Water-survivor café goes full K-pop." Somewhere on a distant radio a pundit muttered about "insurance-fraud café trending again," a cold pin pricking the edge of celebration, but Seo-yeon chose to let it fall through the floorboards. Today was for revenue and rhythm.
By sixteen hundred the office smelled of tonic fizz, citrus zest, and that electric tang of well-earned exhaustion. Receipts fanned across the desk like ginkgo leaves in peak autumn. Income: ₩870 000; expenses: ₩250 000; net: ₩620 000. The buffer exhaled back to life. Seo-yeon sketched a serpent in the ledger margin—now sporting stubby graphite wings angled skyward. Beneath it she wrote Bridge fund, underlined twice, and dotted the exclamation point with a tiny star.
At nineteen hundred the deck lights glowed apricot against a mandarin sky that rippled like silk in a slow breeze. Min-ji's encore—NewJeans' "Hype Boy"—filled the air with cotton-candy falsettos and sneaker squeaks. Twenty dancers swarmed the boards; fairy lights glittered off copper cable, off phone screens, off sweat droplets flung wide by exuberant spins. The generator's gauge tip-toed into the red, humming like a nervous engine, but held on just long enough for the final syllable.
Councillor Han, arms folded, tried and failed to hide a toe-tapping foot. When the music cut he offered a single, dignified clap, then leaned toward Kang. "Harness this for the festival," he said, voice low but grudgingly respectful, "and we'll double your booth footage."
Kang's response—a bow small but radiant—made Seo-yeon's throat tighten.
The crew collapsed together for a photo: rain-scrubbed planks beneath, fairy lights overhead, the river a quiet silver ribbon behind. The shutter snapped, capturing a collage of flushed faces, half-drunk Imugi cups, and the shimmering promise of a town that had refused to sink.
As the crowd thinned, Joon-woo brushed a strand of hair from Seo-yeon's cheek. "Bridge tomorrow, right?" he asked, voice soft as the settling dusk.
"Tomorrow," she confirmed, the new buffer's security beating against her ribs like a quiet drum. Across the river the sky deepened to indigo, and stars began to prick through—each one a tiny stage light aimed at whatever came next.
Chapter 56: Gift of Gears
Mist drifted off the river like breath from an animal finally at rest, turning the sunrise into a watercolor of peach and pewter. At 06 : 30, the cobbled towpath rang with two sets of bicycle gears clinking in counterpoint—Seo-yeon's slim city frame in front, Joon-woo's battered courier bike just behind. Wet stone and blooming jasmine scented each inhale; the morning air tasted faintly of iron, as though the river still remembered the storm's nails.
They pedaled in comfortable silence. Deck inspection, busking euphoria, Cho's shadow—everything slid away with the whirr of spokes. Ahead, a disused bus depot sprawled beside the rails, brick faded to the color of old tea. Pigeons scattered as Joon-woo dismounted and wheeled his bike through a yawning service door.
"Close your eyes," he said, voice vibrating with restrained mischief.
"Seriously?" Seo-yeon wiped dew from her lashes but obeyed, palms warm against handlebars.
Metal scraped concrete, then a soft cloth rustle, the aromatic snap of canvas being tugged free.
"Open."
Sun slanted through cracked skylights, bathing a three-wheel cargo trike in dusty gold. Its frame, powder-coated forest green, carried a cedar box rigged with gleaming copper pipes. A brass gear—polished to mirror finish—served as the front-panel emblem, flanked by a serpent whose stenciled wings spread toward the handlebars.
Seo-yeon's breath caught. "You built an espresso cart."
"More like resurrected one from the scrapyard," Joon-woo said, patting the milk box's insulated lid. "Hand-pump group head—no three-kilowatt draw. Solar trickle charger for the mini-grinder, dynamo lights for night runs. Runs on your legs and a little faith."
He unlocked the pump lever; steam hissed as water from a test kettle met the shiny brass cylinder. With practiced rhythm he cranked the lever. A ribbon of espresso, thick as burnt honey, spiraled into a demitasse. Even in the cavernous depot the crema's walnut-and-toffee aroma bloomed.
Seo-yeon wrapped her fingers around the cup. The porcelain was warm, but the warmth flooding her chest came from somewhere deeper. "How much did all this cost?"
"Most parts were scavenged," he said, shrugging the shoulder no longer held hostage by tape. "New seals, food-grade lines, and a fresh chain… maybe ₩150 000 more."
Her ledger brain flicked through numbers: buffer at ₩805 000 after busking, minus bridge trip fuel, minus this. Viable—barely—but the vision rolling before her felt like possibility given wheels. "We could cover remote festival rows without a generator," she murmured. "And pop-ups after… Seoul, even."
Joon-woo's eyes softened. "That was the idea. Mobility, in case the ground shifts again."
Wheels toward new river crossings, Ha-eun whispered with a smile in her voice.
They trundled the trike back to the café courtyard by 08 : 00. Madam Kang awaited like a general at inspection, pen clipped to an embroidered apron. She circled the cart, tapping bolts, testing brake cables, muttering ledger totals under her breath. Finally she jabbed a finger toward the group head.
"Shot. Now."
Joon-woo pulled; Seo-yeon frothed milk with a whispered prayer. Kang tasted, eyes narrowing to mathematician slits—then widening in grudging wonder. "Crema is festival-grade," she declared. "IOU for your parts—signed and countersigned. Consider this a micro-investment."
Min-ji squealed, camera already rolling B-roll of copper pipes catching the daylight. Across the yard Yujin measured countertop height against her wrist, nodding approval for ergonomic safety. The courtyard buzzed as if the cart were a beehive newly tipped into sunlight.
At 09 : 00 the Rivermobile rolled down the market lane for its maiden glide. Fairy lights leftover from yesterday's show winked in daylight, reflecting off the serpent decal like gold on scales. Vendors clapped; schoolchildren darted alongside on scooters, chanting "mobile Imugi!" Min-ji skated ahead, capturing a slow-motion pan destined for a festival teaser reel.
Halfway down the lane the local florist stopped them with a bouquet of marigolds "for luck," tucking stems into the trike's mesh basket. Joon-woo's laugh rippled richer than the generator's best purr; Seo-yeon felt the sound settle under her skin like balm.
By 09 : 45 they parked at the riverside railing where last night's copper rails still glimmered. The morning sun had burned mist into soft ribbons; cormorants skimmed water as calm as brushed silk. Seo-yeon traced the brass gear emblem, its teeth dulled at two o'clock by use. "Why a gear?" she asked.
"Gears translate small effort into forward motion," he said. "And… I kept this from the night the generator first died. Felt like it should belong to you."
Gratitude rose so swift it stole her balance. Words tangled behind her tongue; all at once the promise of confession hovered between them like the hush before a cymbal crash.
Her phone vibrated, severing the moment. A silent headline scrolled across the screen: Investigator Cho: New Revenue Vectors Under Review Before Court Date. The distant hum of scrutiny re-entered the morning.
Seo-yeon tucked the phone away, forcing breath to steady. "Thank you," she said, squeezing the gear until its ridges pressed half-moons into her palm. "This means… more than I can say right now."
"You'll find the words," Joon-woo answered, voice gentler than river wind. "Maybe tonight, under copper sparks."
She managed a shaky nod, heart drumming staccato. The river murmured onward.
At 10 : 00 they wheeled the cart back toward the café. Seo-yeon buckled her helmet, the brass gear now cool against her palm. "Bridge next," she said, fitting her foot onto the pedal.
Joon-woo fell into stride beside her; the Rivermobile's bell chimed a clear, optimistic note. Gears engaged, wheels turned, and together they set off along the river road—toward the span where past and future waited to meet, and toward an evening wired for lightning and words that could no longer stay unsaid.
Chapter 57: Kiss over Copper
Copper fairy-lights trembled in the dusk like embers caught mid-flight. They framed the café deck in warm halos, glinting off coils of wiring that ran from the temporary generator to the espresso boiler. River silt and roasted beans perfumed the twilight air; the water itself whispered beyond the rail in lazy swirls of pewter.
Seo-yeon adjusted the boiler's gauge, the glass column glowing sunset orange beneath her fingertips. A bead of condensation burst against her thumbnail, startling her with its heat—evidence of nerves she'd sworn were spent after the morning's raw pilgrimage to the bridge. Behind her, volunteers fine-tuned amp levels for the festival's final sound check. Snatches of harmony floated through bass thumps, while the staccato click of cable locks reminded her how thin their margin was: one overloaded circuit, one blackout, and the illusion of readiness could collapse like wet cardboard.
Joon-woo emerged from under the deck with a spool of tape slung over his shoulder, grease smudging the edge of his jaw like war paint. "All leads doubled," he reported, voice roughened by sawdust still trapped in his throat. "Boiler draws steady at nine amps. We're safe unless someone plugs in a time machine."
"Or a popcorn stand," she teased, yet the words carried a tremor—something tender that made her cheeks prickle beneath the copper glow.
He caught the shift, smile tilting. "Popcorn requires a real generator. Which we still don't have."
Before she could answer, synth chords punched from the speakers, lights flared brighter—and the generator's warning diode blinked a furious crimson. An audible click cracked the hush. Deck, boiler, fairy-lights: dead.
A crestfallen groan rolled across the volunteers like a single, deflated wave.
"Breaker tripped," Joon-woo called, already vaulting into the mobile cart's shadow. The rattle of tools on metal flooring sounded like castanets in panic tempo. Seo-yeon's pulse slammed—midnight surges, Cho's probing emails, the court date ticking closer. One breath, two, five—no taps this time. Her palms pressed to the boiler's copper jacket; the metal still radiated stealthy warmth, and she clung to it the way a diver grips a rope in murky water. The generator coughed, sputtered, caught. Light rushed back, painting every face in startled gold.
Steam hissed through the sight-glass, curling into the narrow space where she and Joon-woo now stood—an accidental alcove of humming valves and copper shine. Outside, chatter revived, but inside the cart only heartbeat thunder and the soft sigh of vapor existed.
Joon-woo rolled his shoulder, breath fogging the air between them. "You all right?"
She nodded, then shook her head, words spilling faster than caution could catch them. "I'm… more than all right. I'm terrified. Of Cho's audits, of tomorrow, of wanting things that might vanish." Her fingertips traced a lukewarm pipe. "But mostly I'm done hiding behind repairs and ledgers."
His gaze, dark beneath the boiler glow, steadied her like a carpenter's square. "You faced the bridge. You can face wanting things."
Lightning silently forked beyond the rain-dappled window, engraving his profile in silver. In that flash the third tap of her old panic ritual flipped—becoming a light switch thrown decisively to on. "I want this," she said, voice ironed smooth. "I want you."
The breath Joon-woo released sounded like relief given shape. "You're my lightning," he murmured, closing the space until steam kissed their cheeks.
The first kiss tasted of burnt-sugar crema and river mist, copper-warm and impossibly gentle. Steam droplets haloed them; somewhere behind, Min-ji's camera—set to private—captured a silhouette against the glowing boiler window. Seo-yeon's hand slid into Joon-woo's ponytail, anchoring and soaring in the same motion. In the periphery, Ha-eun's lantern-bright presence dimmed, receding past the thresholds of need: You can hold yourself now.
Lights blazed fully on; the crew erupted in applause—ostensibly for the rebooted boiler, yet perfectly timed. Yujin's wolf whistle cut through cheers, and even Madam Kang's brisk clap carried a tell-tale sparkle. "Romance later," Kang announced, voice half-stern, half-amused. "Rental gen arrives at dawn; paperwork's on my desk."
Joon-woo rested his forehead against Seo-yeon's for a final, stolen heartbeat before stepping back to fine-tune pressure. Joy fizzed through her veins—bright, citric, unapologetic—finding home in spaces once corroded by dread.
Night pooled thick and velvet. At the deck's edge, copper reflections shimmered across the river like molten constellations. Leaning shoulder to shoulder, they shared a second, quieter kiss—an exhale rather than a spark. No guardian voice lingered; only water's hush and the distant tick of Rivermobile's cooling gears.
Her phone buzzed. Auditors request full POS exports by Monday 09 : 00. Cho's net tightened around her ribs for a beat—then eased. She raised their interlaced hands, copper glow wreathing their knuckles.
"We'll face it lit," she said.
Joon-woo's answering squeeze was firm as a soldered seam. Below, the river carried copper lights downstream, scattering them into the dark like seeds.
Chapter 58: Court Packet
Rain battered the café's awning in metallic bursts, an urgent percussion that matched Madam Kang's heartbeat as she unlatched the front door. A courier in a plastic poncho stepped forward, water sluicing from his sleeves, and handed her a binder-thick envelope stamped in indelible crimson: SEOUL CENTRAL DISTRICT COURT – REGISTERED SERVICE. Drops drummed against the waxed paper, releasing the mineral smell of wet cardboard mixed with faint printer toner; although the parcel weighed scarcely a kilo, Kang's arms quivered as though she cradled a block of river stone.
She found Seo-yeon in the back office, shoulders rounded over Monday's POS export while storm-light flickered across the monitor. Steam from an untouched espresso coil drifted around her temple like a restless spirit, curling into the shadows beneath her eyes. Kang laid the envelope beside the keyboard. "For you."
The afterglow of last night's copper kiss drained from Seo-yeon's cheeks. She slid a butter knife under the seal; the wax parted with a soft sigh. Forty pages fanned across the desk—each corner embossed with a watermark shaped like a miniature court gavel, as if judgment itself had left fingerprints.
Itemized Evidence Request – Due within ten (10) days
Full CCTV archives, Jan–Jul, inclusive
Point-of-sale transaction logs, daily-batch format
Certified rehabilitation records
…30. "Resurrection" social-media analytics
Hearing date: 16 August.
Deposition reminder: 1 August.
The unlit pine-scent candle that had anchored six months of sobriety sat on the shelf, wick pale and untested this morning. In the hush, she imagined it whispering: Facts, not fear.
A ceramic mug thudded against the jamb; Park Yujin strode in, soaked ponytail dripping onto her stethoscope. "News is never good when it knocks before seven." She steered Seo-yeon into the hall where paint peeled at ankle height from recent flooding. Velcro rasped as the cuff tightened—148 over 96.
"Ground," Yujin ordered, voice half-fond, half-commanding. "Five-beat inhale, seven-beat slow bleed." As Seo-yeon filled her lungs, cool plaster bled clammy damp through her blouse, the chill taming the roar in her ears.
"Hourly water, twenty-minute breaks," Yujin decreed, slipping a tablet of magnesium into Seo-yeon's palm. "Or I tape you to a chair with surgical wrap."
By 08 : 10 the rain thinned to a silver gauze. Under the shade sail, the air smelled of wet canvas, river mud, and yesterday's yuzu rinds left to dry. Joon-woo balanced a tablet on his knee; freckles of drizzle jewelled the screen as Im Ji-hye—hair pulled into a weary top-knot—materialised via video. Piles of manila files rose behind her like a skyline of beige worries.
"I'm already juggling three fraud dockets," Im said, pushing round glasses up the bridge of her nose, "but your timeline is brutal. Still—structured chaos can be navigated." She projected a colour-coded calendar: evidence uploads every night, witness worksheets, Q&A windows. Her certainty settled around Seo-yeon like scaffolding around cracked masonry.
"We're meticulous," Seo-yeon managed, tasting copper from an over-bitten lip.
At 08 : 45 the office reeked of toner and citrus disinfectant overlaid by the salt-sharp scent of Kang's anxiety. Two blue-cloth ledgers—edges fuzzed, pages swollen from humidity—landed on the desk. "Some cash advances missed their line items," Kang confessed, voice papery.
"Consequences weigh less when carried together," Seo-yeon replied, thumb stroking frayed cloth.
Min-ji sealed every webcam with painter's tape, each rip a promise of secrecy. A portable scanner hummed beside the brew bar; volunteers fed brittle receipts across glass, click-whirr rhythms syncopating with the grinder's low purr. Espresso's dark-chocolate aroma entwined with the peppery bite of warming circuitry and ozone from extension cords. File names bloomed inside the secure vault like seedlings: CCTV_Wk12_missing.mp4, PettyCash_advance_log.pdf.
At 10 : 00 Im's shared screen lit an amber warning: CCTV—Feb 3-4 missing. Two blackout days—a hole wide enough for accusation.
"I'll canvas the market stalls," Seo-yeon said. Exhaustion rasped her throat, but resolve steeled her spine.
Mist drifted over slate water, snagging on reed tips like torn silk. On a bench slick with rain sheen, Seo-yeon leaned into Joon-woo's jacketed shoulder. "Courtrooms scare me less than spreadsheets that lie," she admitted, watching a lone heron cut the river's skin.
"You rewrote a spiral into straight columns," he reminded, knuckles brushing damp hair from her brow. Foreheads touched; warmth pooled in the space between breaths. In that hush, determination steadied like a level bubble.
Back inside, the laptop chimed. FROM: Cho Hyun-sik. Subject: Evidence Receipt Confirmation.
Failure to comply within 10 days may result in temporary asset freeze.
Across the room the binder's spine caught the ceiling light, the stamped words CAUSE: INSURANCE MISREPRESENTATION gleaming like fresh lacquer. Seo-yeon inhaled deliberately—coffee, rain, faint copper memory of last night's kiss.
"Ten days," she whispered. "We'll thread every needle."
Outside, the rental generator clanged over potholes—late, loud, leaking diesel in rude constellations on the wet asphalt—announcing the next riddle before this one was even solved.
Chapter 59: Lanterns Relit
The rain had settled into a steady, relentless drumbeat, its cold fingers tapping against the café's awning, like an impatient audience waiting for the show to begin. The air was thick with mist, and the river beyond, once turbulent and unruly, now lay calm, reflecting the hazy gray sky above. The drizzle turned the town into a soft blur, the kind of weather that made everything look more intimate, more urgent. The lanterns on the café deck, still dimmed and shivering, awaited their moment to come alive.
Madam Kang stood in the doorway, eyes narrowing as she surveyed the gray horizon. The scent of rain-damp wood mingled with the bitterness of espresso in the air. The festival, just hours away, seemed on the verge of being swallowed by the downpour. Her fingers tightened around a cup of tea, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the chill creeping through her bones. "The weather will drown us if it keeps up," she muttered under her breath, running her free hand over the back of her neck. The team had worked so hard to make this festival a success, and yet, the heavens themselves seemed to conspire against them.
Behind her, the crew rushed about with a quiet sense of urgency, as if the storm outside had breathed life into their tired limbs. Volunteers scurried across the deck, stringing fairy lights through the air, their movements sharp and determined. The copper wires of the lantern circle were laid out in concentric rings, each segment carefully aligned by Min-ji and her small team. They knew the importance of this—every inch of string, every bulb, every knot mattered.
Joon-woo, soaked to the bone but unfazed, worked quickly alongside Seo-yeon to rig the temporary generator. His hands moved deftly, a testament to his craftsmanship and patience, as he secured the battery packs to the cart's frame. The air around them smelled of wet earth and gasoline, a reminder of the fragile balance they were walking. One wrong connection, one misstep, and all their hard work could be plunged into darkness.
The drizzle fell in sheets now, but Seo-yeon barely noticed the cold. Her focus was split between the generator and the anxious knot in her stomach. She had asked for this. She had chosen to trust in this moment, in the lanterns, in her team, but it was hard to let go of the weight that hovered over her—of the court date looming just two weeks away, of the ever-vanishing buffer that threatened to swallow them whole. Yet here, in the midst of rain-soaked uncertainty, she realized something: this festival was more than just about money or the court case. It was about the community—the people who had stood by them, who believed in what they were building.
"Almost done," Joon-woo said, wiping his hands on his wet shirt as he tightened the last connection to the temporary generator.
The hum of the generator started as a low growl, then surged into a steady rhythm. The lights flickered for a moment before coming to life, their warm glow cutting through the cold, damp air. The lanterns above, now illuminated, shone like tiny suns against the backdrop of storm clouds. A collective cheer rose from the crew, the sound of it muffled by the rain but still filled with the promise of triumph.
Min-ji stood at the edge of the deck, her camera trained on the lanterns, waiting for the perfect shot. The rain had already softened the crowd's numbers, but those who remained were drawn to the warmth of the lights. Seo-yeon felt a pang of hope; it was working. The circle of lanterns, now alight, seemed to offer a silent invitation: step inside, find refuge, and join the light.
"Ready for the show?" Min-ji called, her voice crackling with excitement.
Seo-yeon smiled, nodding as she glanced at Joon-woo. He was standing beside her now, his expression soft but proud.
"We'll make it work," he said, his voice low but certain, as they both watched the rain-slicked crowd begin to gather in the warmth of the lanterns' light.
As the clock ticked toward 17 : 30, the first notes of the K-pop cover troupe's song rang out through the speakers, amplifying the energy that had been gathering all day. The crowd had started to pick up, lured by the bright lights and the promise of something familiar in the storm. People huddled under umbrellas, joining in the dance as the cover troupe moved across the deck, their synchronized steps drawing laughter and cheers. The café's food queue tripled, with Lemon-Ice and Matcha-Imugi drinks flying out of the bar faster than ever before.
Seo-yeon worked the espresso machine with deft hands, pulling shots and preparing drinks in rhythm with the music. The smell of freshly ground matcha mixed with the sweet citrus of the lemon tonic in the air, creating a perfect storm of aromas that seemed to capture the energy of the evening. Kang watched from the side, her frown softening as she noticed the crowd multiplying. The sales were climbing faster than she had dared to hope, and the café was starting to feel like a true heartbeat in the rain. This wasn't just a temporary lift—it was a community gathering.
"I can't believe it's working," Kang muttered under her breath, her eyes flickering between the crowd and the register, watching as the numbers on the sales screen climbed higher. The joy of it mixed with disbelief, and just for a moment, the weight of the legal looming deadline seemed to lift.
By 18 : 00, Min-ji's phone buzzed in her hand as she captured a quick 15-second clip of the crowd dancing beneath the glowing lanterns. She posted it to her private archive, knowing the viral potential of the moment. Within an hour, the local paper had shared the clip, and the footage appeared on news feeds across social media, its title gleaming in bright bold letters: "Resilient Café Glows Through the Storm."
Seo-yeon felt the swell of pride as she caught a glimpse of the reposted clip on her own feed. The café was no longer just a place for coffee—it had become a symbol of defiance against the storm, both literal and figurative. In the midst of it all, the looming specter of Cho's investigation, though present, seemed like a distant echo, swallowed by the vibrant energy around them.
By 16 : 00, when the last group of dancers finished their routine, the café had raised ₩210 000, and it was still counting. The cold fuel surcharge for the generator had been offset by the sheer volume of drink sales, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, Seo-yeon allowed herself to breathe.
"Alright, let's call it," Kang said, checking the time. "We've covered the generator surcharge, and we're ahead for the day."
Seo-yeon's fingers hovered over the ledger as the weight of the numbers sank in. They were back to a buffer level that wasn't just manageable—it was a step toward stability.
"Bridge trip fund is solid," Seo-yeon noted aloud, allowing herself to feel the victory in the moment. The café wasn't just surviving; it was thriving, and the whole team had made it happen.
At 20 : 00, the rain had lightened to a drizzle, and the volunteers relit any lanterns that had flickered out in the earlier deluge. The final circle of lanterns stood tall, a soft beacon in the darkened plaza. The crowd had thinned, but those who remained lingered, drawn to the beauty of the lanterns' soft, golden glow. Ha-eun's quiet voice, barely a whisper, carried over the river: "Light keeps accounts."
The lanterns burned bright, not just in their radiance, but in the proof they held of their journey—a story of struggles met with light, darkness cleared by perseverance.
As the last lantern was relit, Seo-yeon stood at the river's edge, her hand in Joon-woo's, and watched the lights stretch across the water, reflections scattering like a thousand tiny stars. The festival had not only succeeded—it had solidified something bigger than them all: their place in this town, their resilience in the face of every challenge. And Seo-yeon knew that the path forward, however uncertain, would be navigated by the very light they had lit together.
Tomorrow's trial still loomed on the horizon, but for now, the lanterns glowed bright, and Seo-yeon allowed herself to savor this moment, this light, before the next wave of uncertainty rolled in.
Chapter 60: Pledge of Heat
Dawn seeped into the café in bruised-peach bands, light fighting through smoke-blue storm clouds that still loitered over the river. The floors smelled of yesterday's rain and fresh sawdust. Seo-yeon rolled her shoulders as the wall clock clicked to 06 : 00; the hands looked like small spears nudging her forward.
She stepped into the back office and flicked on the ancient PA. The speaker crackled, then her voice filled every corner of Mount Valley Café and the plaza beyond. "Morning crew—call to arms! Paint, power tools, sanding blocks at the ready. Breakfast at the counter, then we build until the screws give out."
A muffled cheer answered from the deck. Seo-yeon allowed herself half a smile. Two weeks ago she would have rehearsed that announcement three times. Today it simply rose from her chest, clear as steam.
The volunteers trickled in—apron straps still damp from laundry, hair plastered to foreheads in the humid air. Madam Kang ladled juk into compostable bowls and pinched sea-salt flakes over each serving. "Eat fast," she barked, but her eyes shone under soft morning bulbs.
Task sheets went up on a cork board: Deck Sand & Seal, Courtyard Paint, Lantern Rewire, Boiler Gasket Check. Seo-yeon tapped names into each box, handing out gloves and plastic ponchos like a commander issuing armor. Somewhere inside, the knot of dread that had coiled since the court packet loosened a fraction; she wasn't alone in this campaign.
By 07 : 30, the kitchen echoed with wrench clanks. Joon-woo slid beneath the espresso boiler, shoulder still taped but stubborn as solder. Copper pipes reflected the first strong rays of daylight—a soft glow that reminded Seo-yeon of molten lantern light.
"Replace that worn O-ring and she'll run cooler," he said, voice muffled. "Generator's behaving, but the fuel gauge is drunk."
Seo-yeon crouched, passing him a gasket slick with food-grade grease. "We'll sober it up. How's your shoulder?"
"Grumbles like Kang's ledger, but it'll hold." He flashed a grin, grease smearing his cheek like war paint.
They tightened the final clamp together, knuckles brushing; a tiny spark of warmth leapt between copper and skin.
Rain teased but never broke as 09 : 00 found Min-ji kneeling on the slick deck, arranging waterproof LED lanterns. Each orb clicked into place along chalked concentric rings: thirteen in the inner coil, twenty-six in the next, spiraling toward the river rail. Her drone hummed upward, blades slicing damp air to capture the pattern from above.
"These circles will look like breathing constellations tonight," she said, eyes glittering behind safety goggles.
Yujin, hoarse from a lingering cold, pressed a thermometer to her own throat and nodded approval. "Crew's pulse good, hydration station stocked. You,"—she jabbed a finger at Seo-yeon—"sip water, not panic."
Seo-yeon saluted with a paper cup of barley tea.
At 10 : 00 Kang paced the courtyard, calculator app open. Each raindrop that struck her screen triggered a sigh. "Antirust sealant, extra rollers, generator diesel—this list breeds like rabbits."
Seo-yeon steadied her. "One more push and the café stands for the hearing and the festival. After that, revenue rises."
Kang's gaze darted to the bustling volunteers—retirees wiping beams, teenagers tapping nails. She exhaled, thumb hovering above the transfer button. "Fine—another ₩150 000 from reserve." She pressed Send, shoulders dropping as if coins had spilled from them. "But that's my line in the sand."
Seo-yeon squeezed her arm. "Lines can be walked together."
Councillor Han arrived at 11 : 30, umbrella dripping onto newly painted planks. He traced a finger along a glossy beam. "Deadline's tight," he said, voice cool.
"Wood cures faster under shared hands," Joon-woo replied, gesturing to the sea of ponchos wielding brushes in rhythmic strokes.
Han's gaze drifted to the lantern grid and the fresh coat of teal paint brightening the courtyard walls. A reluctant nod. "Impressive momentum. I'll log today's progress in the municipal report." He paused. "Just keep the generator quiet during inspection."
"We will," Seo-yeon promised, praying the rented unit would behave.
High noon brought a muggy lull. Seo-yeon rested against the rail, chest damp. Ha-eun's presence settled beside her like a warm breeze.
Delegate, little navigator, the voice murmured, barely louder than cicada buzz. Trust the river of hands.
Seo-yeon's breathing slowed. She turned to see Min-ji choreographing a paint crew, Yujin handing electrolyte sachets, Kang double-checking receipts—each person a lantern in daylight. Letting go felt less like surrender and more like buoyancy.
At 13 : 30 an argument flared by the tool shed—scrap-wood lengths too short, tempers shorter. Seo-yeon stepped between the clashing voices, palms raised.
"Measure again," she said, calm threading through her words. "We're building a circle, not a cage." A breath, a shared laugh, apology murmurs. Nails resumed their rhythmic tapping, tension dissolving like steam off copper.
By 14 : 00 the last lantern snapped into its socket. The volunteers gathered in a ragged circle, cheeks streaked with sweat and sawdust. The river glimmered behind them, afternoon sun setting the copper wiring ablaze.
Seo-yeon wiped her brow, stepping into the center. "We began this café to serve coffee," she said, voice rough with fatigue and pride, "but today we serve proof—proof that community is louder than storm sirens and stronger than stamped court seals." She placed her palm flat on the deck. "We pledge this heat—our labor, our light—to carry us through the hearing and beyond."
Hands met wood around the circle—calloused, manicured, trembling, steady. A collective heartbeat thumped through planks still warm from sanding.
An hour later, golden haze slanted across the finished deck. The lantern grid lay dormant, waiting for dusk. Seo-yeon and Joon-woo leaned at the rail, forearms brushing.
"You led them like you lead the ledger," he whispered.
She laughed softly. "Columns don't sweat this much."
He turned, eyes tracing the fresh paint, the newly sealed beams. "Tomorrow the festival lights up; two weeks later, the court. No matter what happens inside that courtroom, this deck stands because you believed it could."
She looked at his bandaged shoulder, then at the circle of lanterns ready to blaze. "Because we believed," she corrected.
Below, the generator coughed—a reminder it still owed them a tantrum. The sound carried a promise of tomorrow's riddle, but for this breath, coppery sunlight bathed their joined shadows, and the river answered with quiet applause.