Seoul had already begun to fold itself into my daily rhythm—early mornings, coffee in hand, and the same bus route to work. The city always looked alive from the bus window: children tugging on their mothers' sleeves, office workers glued to their phones, and students with backpacks bigger than their bodies.
But that morning, something broke the rhythm. Something that was the start of many regrets?
The bus jolted to a stop, and the usual hum of chatter shifted into uneasy silence. A tall man with sharp features, slicked-back hair, and an arrogance that wrapped around him like a cloak, was standing in the aisle. It looked like he was a delivery man. His voice was rough, almost mocking. He was cornering a young boy—couldn't have been more than sixteen.
"Hey kid," the man sneered, yanking the girl's cap off his head. "What's in the bag? Money? Snacks? Or something worth my time?"
The girl's trembling hands clutched her school bag tighter. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Eyes darted around the bus, begging for help. But no one spoke. No one moved. Heads lowered, gazes fixed firmly on the floor. The silence of fear.
Something inside me ignited. A familiar, old ache.
Because I had seen this before.
Back home, in classrooms, on streets, even inside my own house—voices silenced, people pushed down, children told to stay quiet. I remembered the times I had spoken up, sometimes earning bruises, sometimes cold stares, but never regret. Silence was poison, and I had promised myself I would never drink it. Not again.
I stood up.
"Enough," I said, my voice louder than I expected.
The man turned, his eyes narrowing as if he had just been interrupted mid-performance. His gaze swept over me—measured, mocking, then sharp.
"And who are you?" he spat. "Some hero wannabe?"
I took a step forward, placing myself between him and the girl. "Leave her alone. She's just a kid. Pick on someone your own size." I scoffed!!!
Gasps rippled through the bus. The girl's eyes widened—hope flickering for the first time. But the man's lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile.
"You've got a big mouth for a stranger," he said, his voice low, threatening. He leaned closer, so close I could feel his breath on my face. "Do you even know who I am?"
Ohhh I don't know. "Introduce yourself so I can get to know you." Do you want me to say this?
He replied remember my name, "PARK SEO JOON" otherwise you will regret.
I didn't flinch. "I don't care who you are. Bullying is still bullying."
For a moment, his face was unreadable. Then came the laugh. Low at first, then sharp, cutting through the tense air of the bus. But in his eyes—oh, in his eyes—there was no laughter. Only rage.
He shoved past me, his shoulder colliding into mine with deliberate force, before storming off the bus at the next stop.
When he was getting off from the bus I noticed something familiar. There was a tattoo on his arm. I had seen that somewhere before. But I ingored that by thinking of it as an illusion….
I asked the girl, "Are you okay? Don't be afraid… you are safe"
The girl whispered a shaky "thank you" as she sank back into her seat, clutching her bag like a lifeline.
But me? I stayed standing, staring at the spot where the man had been. Because in that brief, charged moment, I saw it—the way he looked at me.
Not like a stranger.
Like an enemy.
And the whole day I kept on thinking about the same thing that how come I speak up that loudly and why did he collide his shoulder with mine? My mind was full of questions. It seems like he was psychopath maybe not? But I just spent my whole day the same as my routie
That was the day I first crossed paths with Park Joon Seok. And I didn't know it yet, but by speaking up, I had just lit a fire in him—a fire that would turn into an obsession. From that day on, I wasn't just the girl who spoke up. To him, I was the woman who dared to humiliate him.
And for men like him, that was unforgivable.