It wasn't the messages that kept Minjae awake that night.
It was the silence that followed.
Every minute without a reply felt more ominous than the ones that had come before.
He lay in bed with the blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes wide open, ears straining for any sound beyond the thin walls of their apartment.
But there was nothing. No messages. No footsteps. Just the ticking of the cheap plastic clock on his wall.
He'd checked every app, scanned for spyware, even deleted messaging backups. Nothing unusual.
And yet… the messages still arrived.
When sleep finally took him, it was restless. Shadowed.
⸻
The next morning began with a headache.
Not the pounding kind—but a low, dull throb that made the world feel a shade grayer.
Minjae stood in front of the mirror, running a damp towel across his face. Dark circles had bloomed beneath his eyes.
He tied his apron for the café shift and left without a word. Mirae had already gone.
Outside, the city moved on. Loud, busy, unaware.
He hated how normal it all seemed.
📲💬
You didn't eat again.
There's a warm lunch waiting for you behind the staff fridge.
💬
He paused mid-step.
Then, slowly, walked into the alley beside the café and unlocked the employee entrance.
The staff fridge stood in the corner. He hesitated. Opened it.
Inside, wrapped in insulated packaging, was a neatly packed bento box.
Nothing fancy. Simple rice, grilled mackerel, a rolled omelet, and sliced apple rabbits.
His favorite.
He picked up the container with trembling fingers. No note this time. But there didn't need to be.
Whoever they were… they knew him too well.
💭
This isn't just stalking anymore.
💭
But he didn't throw it out.
He couldn't.
And that scared him even more.
⸻
Across the street, tucked into a third-floor café window, a woman stirred her coffee slowly.
She watched him through tinted glass, eyes cold, patient, yet tinged with something darkly tender.
"Still so predictable," she murmured. "Even after all these years."
A man in a sharp gray suit stood behind her, nervous, rigid.
"Miss… do you want us to intervene? This level of exposure—"
"Don't speak unless I ask you to," she cut him off.
He flinched and bowed. "Yes, Director Seo."
She took another sip. Her crimson lipstick stained the rim of the cup.
Outside, Kang Minjae walked back into the café, lunchbox in hand, unaware of the gaze locked onto his every move.
She smiled faintly.
Seo Yoonji.
The name that the world feared in boardrooms and whispered behind closed doors.
But in that moment, she was just a woman watching a boy she'd never stopped obsessing over.
No—a man, now.
A man who still looked at the world like it hadn't already burned him.
A man too naive to notice the net tightening around him.
She leaned back in her chair.
"Soon," she whispered, almost lovingly. "You'll see me again."
⸻
Back at the café, Minjae's shift passed in a haze. Customers came and went. Orders were shouted. Machines hissed and steamed.
But he was distant. Going through motions. Every time the bell above the door jingled, his eyes darted up—half-expecting to see someone standing there, watching him.
No one came.
Until the end of his shift.
She walked in like mist—quiet, composed, almost too graceful for the sticky floors of a student café.
Long black coat. Silky blouse. No umbrella, and not a drop of rain on her.
She was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of woman who didn't belong in this part of the city.
Minjae blinked, stunned for a moment.
Then quickly straightened. "Welcome. What can I get you?"
Her eyes met his. Dark. Sharp. But unreadable.
Like staring into a mirror with no reflection.
"An americano. Black." Her voice was low, smooth. But there was something off. Too controlled.
He nodded and turned to make the drink, hands moving automatically.
When he set the cup on the counter, she didn't take it.
She just watched him. Head tilted slightly. Studying. Measuring.
Minjae cleared his throat. "Here you go, miss."
She didn't move.
Then, softly:
"Do you remember me?"
He froze.
"…Sorry?"
She smiled. But there was no warmth in it. Only possession.
"I suppose not. You wouldn't. Not yet."
He blinked. "Have we met…?"
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she picked up the cup, turned, and walked out without another word.
No payment. No name.
Just that lingering presence, like perfume soaked into the air.
He stood there, heart pounding, staring at the door.
📲💬
She's beautiful, isn't she?
You noticed her.
💬
His phone slipped slightly in his grip. He quickly typed back.
📲💬
Was that you? Who are you??
💬
📲💬
Don't worry. She won't hurt you.
She loves you too much.
💬
He stared at the screen in disbelief. Then slowly looked up.
Through the glass windows of the café, the street was empty. The woman was gone.
But the feeling remained.
That someone was still watching.
⸻
That night, Kang Mirae was late again.
Minjae reheated leftover rice and scrambled an egg. He didn't touch the bento box. Just placed it carefully in the fridge.
He told himself he'd throw it out tomorrow.
Mirae arrived past 11 PM, dropping her bag with a sigh. "My editor's a monster. I swear he's trying to kill me with deadlines."
She flopped onto the couch, kicking off her heels.
"You okay?" she asked after a moment, eyes narrowing. "You look… distracted."
Minjae hesitated.
"Just tired. Had a weird customer today."
"You always have weird customers." She yawned. "It's Seoul. Everyone's cracked."
He forced a smile. "Yeah. True."
Mirae rubbed her forehead. "By the way, there's someone from your university trying to contact you. A girl. She came by the publishing house asking about you."
His head snapped up. "What girl?"
"I didn't get a name. She left before I could talk to her directly. Just told the receptionist to pass on a message—said she'll see you again soon."
Minjae's blood ran cold.
He didn't say anything.
Just nodded.
And quietly reached for his phone.
📲💬
Was that you again?
Why are you doing this?
What do you want from me?
💬
A pause. Then:
📲💬
To be close.
💬
Another message followed.
📲💬
To never be far again.
💬
Minjae dropped the phone onto his desk and buried his face in his hands.
💭
This is insane.
This is not normal.
This is not love.
💭
And yet…
Some part of him…
A small, buried piece…
Wasn't afraid.
It was flattered.
Wanted.
Even if the wanting came wrapped in shadows.
⸻
[End of Chapter 2]
⸻