Yoon Haeun sat across from him, her hands folded tightly on her lap. The conference room was too quiet, too pristine—like a place where nothing human had ever really happened. The kind of silence that swallowed your thoughts and left you raw.
Kang Jinhwan sat at the head of the table, composed as ever. But she saw the way his fingers tapped the armrest in a rhythm too specific to be idle. He was thinking. Calculating. Watching her.
She hated the way her pulse reacted to that stare. Like it remembered something her mind didn't.
"You seem unsettled," he said.
"I wasn't expecting a private audience with a CEO on my first day."
"That's not what's bothering you."
His words weren't accusatory. Just observant. Like he was peeling away at layers she hadn't even realized she was wearing.
She exhaled slowly. "The lights flickered."
He tilted his head, amused. "And you think I control the electricity now?"
"No," she replied, a hint of humor cracking through. "Just that I've had... a strange morning."
"A strange morning brought on by a bracelet and a door that shouldn't have opened?"
Her fingers curled protectively over her wrist. "You noticed."
"I notice everything," he said, then added, "Especially things that are impossible."
They stared at each other for a beat too long.
Jinhwan rose, walking toward the massive window again. It was something he did often, she realized—turn away when he was about to say something important. As if distance made his words easier to speak.
"There's a part of this company most people never see," he said. "It's not on paper. It doesn't show up in board meetings or budgets. But it's real."
He turned just slightly, eyes catching hers over his shoulder.
"It's why you're here."
Her heart skipped. "You're being very cryptic, CEO Kang."
His gaze didn't flinch. "Because this is the part where most people leave. Or run."
She didn't move. "I'm not most people."
He studied her again. That same calculating look, as if he were searching her face for a clue. "No. You're not."
---
Later that evening – Haeun's temporary apartment in Gangnam
The unit was beautiful in that polished, high-rise way that felt like no one had ever truly lived in it. But it had everything she needed—clean counters, stocked fridge, blackout curtains. Even a welcome gift from Daehan Group.
She sat at the kitchen counter, sipping ginger tea. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
It's nothing. Just exhaustion. New job. New city. That's all.
But even as she thought it, her fingers moved unconsciously to her bracelet.
And it was warm again.
She pulled up the sleeve of her sweatshirt and looked.
The birthmark beneath it was glowing—faint, soft, like embers still clinging to life.
She gasped and dropped the mug.
It shattered across the floor, tea splashing like blood across white tile.
Haeun stood frozen, heart hammering, eyes wide.
She'd seen it pulse before. As a child. Once when she was seventeen.
And again—just once—on the day her mother died.
---
Meanwhile – Daehan Tower, Rooftop Garden
Jinhwan stood beneath the moonlight, his coat barely rustling in the breeze.
The night air smelled like rain and something older—something sacred.
Min approached quietly, holding a thick folder.
"She felt it," Min said without preamble.
Jinhwan didn't look surprised. "The lotus burned?"
"Yes."
He closed his eyes for a moment. A flicker of sorrow passed over his face. "Then the seal is truly breaking."
Min hesitated. "Should we begin containment?"
"No."
"Jinhwan—"
"If we act too soon, we'll lose her before she remembers."
Min's voice was gentler now. "She might not want to remember."
Jinhwan's jaw tensed.
"She always remembers."
---
Back in the apartment
Haeun dropped to her knees and began picking up the shards of the mug, her hands shaking.
One cut her finger, but she didn't react to the pain.
Her eyes were locked on her wrist.
The glow had faded. Gone, like a hallucination. But she knew what she saw.
And for the first time in years, she said the name she hadn't dared to whisper.
Not out loud. Not since that dream.
"Jinhwan…"
She didn't know why she said it.
Only that it felt like she'd said it before—lifetimes ago.