Madame Luna did not schedule appointments. She issued summonses.
The envelope appeared on the polished surface of Ha-eun's desk.
Placed there sometime between her stepping out for a meeting and her return.
No receptionist had seen a courier.
It was simply there.
A stark rectangle of creamy, heavy paper against the black glass.
It bore no stamp, no address.
Only her name, Elena Yoon, inscribed in a flowing, silver-inked script.
Inside, a card of rice paper, thin enough to see through.
The front was blank.
On the back, a single line:
Até as orquídeas fantasmas buscam a lua.
Below, an address in Seongsu-dong, and a time: 3:33 PM. Tomorrow.
Ha-eun held the card by its very edges.
The paper felt alien, a piece of skin from another world.
Ghost orchids. A rare, leafless flower.
It did not seek the sun. It lurked in shadows.
The metaphor was not subtle.
The invitation was a spider's thread, delicate and strong.
To pull on it was to announce her presence.
To ignore it was to confess fear.
She placed the card in a clear evidence sleeve, sealing it away.
But inside, a cold, bright curiosity ignited.
This was the game.
The next day, she dressed as armor.
A dress the color of a storm cloud shot through with silver thread.
It said nothing about her, and everything.
In the taxi, she stared out at the blur of the city.
The dossier on Madame Luna played behind her eyes: a curated void.
A black hole of information.
Approaching her was dangerous. Not going was impossible.
Byeolbit Garden was not a shop. It was a pocket dimension.
Its entrance was an unmarked, arched door of aged oak.
Ha-eun pressed a discreet brass button.
The door sighed inward on silent hinges.
The humidity hit her first, a warm, living wall.
The air itself tasted of growth and decay.
Sound died. The roar of Seoul was amputated.
Light filtered down from a glass ceiling.
It was a curated jungle.
Ferns with fronds as wide as car doors brushed her shoulders.
The path underfoot was smooth river stones, worn slick.
And there were butterflies.
Dozens. Their wings flashing impossible, metallic blue.
They moved with a languid, unhurried purpose.
It was beautiful. It was utterly unnerving.
Every detail was perfect, which meant every detail was a potential weapon.
Madame Luna seemed to materialize from between two towering plants.
She wore a modernized hanbok in layers of dove-grey and slate.
Her gloves today were of fine grey lace.
Her eyes found Ha-eun's and held them.
"Consultant Yoon," she said, her voice a low contralto.
"You found us. The orchids are pleased."
She inclined her head slightly.
Her gaze swept over Ha-eun's dress.
A small, knowing smile touched her lips.
"A beautiful carapace. The silver suits the shadows here."
Ha-eun had prepared a dozen corporate platitudes. None fit.
"Your invitation was… compelling."
"They usually are, to the right people."
Luna turned, expecting Ha-eun to follow.
"Come. The tea is just at its perfect moment."
She led Ha-eun to a secluded nook.
A porcelain teapot steamed gently.
Luna poured with an economical grace.
"You are a woman who appreciates transformation, I think."
She handed her a cup.
"The principle of Crysalia. The ugly, painful process of becoming something new."
Ha-eun accepted the cup.
"It's a business principle. Identify the weak structure, break it down, rebuild stronger."
"Is it?"
Luna took a slow sip, her eyes watching over the rim.
"Business. Such a clean word for such a messy thing."
She set her cup down.
"What is your hunger, Elena Yoon?"
The use of her alias felt like a pinprick.
"My clients hire me to solve problems. Hunger is irrelevant. Results are what matter."
"Ah."
Luna's smile deepened.
"A very modern answer. All outcome, no appetite. But the appetite is always there, my dear. It is the engine."
She leaned forward, just slightly.
"You seek a connection. A thread. A point, perhaps, like a shell company called Moonflower Atelier, and another point… something much heavier. Much darker."
Ha-eun's pulse did not quicken. She made sure of it.
She took a sip of the tea.
An initial, bracing bitterness, followed by a slow, creeping sweetness.
"I seek many connections. It's my job."
"Of course."
Luna sat back, her posture relaxed but her gaze needle-sharp.
"Jobs are such useful containers for our obsessions."
She paused, then reached into a fold of her sleeve.
She produced a slender object wrapped in a square of raw silk.
She placed it on the table between them.
"For you. A small gift. To help you… connect the dots."
Ha-eun did not reach for it.
"I don't accept gifts from potential business associates."
"This is not business. This is archaeology."
Luna nudged the silk-wrapped bundle closer.
"It is an old calligraphy brush. The handle is worn smooth by a hand that is now dust."
She let the words hang.
"Sometimes, the old tools see the patterns the new ones miss."
Slowly, Ha-eun unfolded the silk.
The brush lay there, humble and ancient.
It felt inert, a dead thing.
But as her fingers hovered above it, the Dom gave a low, sympathetic thrum.
This object had history. It had witnessed things.
It was a key.
"Why?" Ha-eun asked, her voice tighter than she intended.
"Because," Madame Luna whispered, "the garden is full of ghosts, Consultant Yoon. And some of them are trying to tell you a story. You just need to learn how to listen."
The audience was clearly over.
Ha-eun stood, the brush now a lead weight in her palm.
She slipped it into the inner pocket of her coat.
"Thank you for the tea."
"The pleasure was mine. Do visit again. When you have more… dots to connect."
The walk back through the humid jungle felt longer.
The butterflies seemed to watch her.
She focused on the exit.
She was almost there, hand reaching for the oak door, when a figure stepped into the narrow space.
She collided with a solid wall of chest and expensive wool.
The impact was sharp.
A strong hand shot out, gripping her elbow to steady them both.
The scent hit her first—cigarette smoke woven into fine cashmere, and beneath it, clean, angry sweat.
She looked up.
Seo Jun-ho stared down, his dark eyes wide with momentary, unguarded confusion.
His hair was disheveled.
For a fraction of a second, his gaze wasn't that of a corporate heir.
It was raw, startled.
"You…" he breathed.
Then, like a shutter slamming down, the moment shattered.
His expression iced over.
His grip loosened, but not before she felt the startling, electric heat of it.
He dropped his hand as if her skin had burned him.
"Sorry," he muttered.
He didn't step aside.
He just stood there, blocking her path, his eyes searching her face.
The air between them crackled.
Ha-eun recovered first.
She stepped back, disentangling herself with a smooth, economical motion.
"I should go," she said, already moving past him.
Jun-ho didn't stop her.
But he didn't look away either.
His gaze followed her with an intensity that was no longer professional.
It was unsettled.
She felt it as she passed him.
A resonance.
The garden seemed to inhale.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to sensation.
Then she was free.
She walked faster than necessary.
Behind her, she did not turn.
She did not need to.
She knew he was still standing there, watching.
The door closed with a soft, final sound.
Outside, Seoul struck her like a slap—noise, exhaust, speed.
She welcomed it.
She walked until the garden was reduced to a scent.
Only then did she allow herself to touch her arm.
The place where he'd held her pulsed faintly.
Warm.
As if marked.
High above the street, reflected in a darkened window, she caught a glimpse of herself.
For a fractured instant, the reflection didn't move quite in sync.
The Dom stirred.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Just enough to whisper a warning.
Some intersections were not accidents.
They were ignition points.