Rain fell in thin, restless lines across the city, turning the afternoon into something quieter than it should have been.
KI BA DAT was walking home after finishing a long shift, his thoughts drifting nowhere in particular. He moved the way people do when they are used to being unnoticed—steady steps, eyes forward, no urgency, no expectation. The world passed him without resistance, and he passed it the same way.
That was when he noticed the umbrella.
It had flipped inside out in the wind, its metal ribs exposed like something fragile and embarrassed. The woman holding it stood still on the sidewalk, clearly deciding whether to fight the rain or wait for the wind to calm.
KI BA DAT hesitated for less than a second.
He stepped forward, reached out, and fixed the umbrella with practiced ease. Their hands did not touch. He made sure of that. When the umbrella returned to its proper shape, he gave a small nod, polite and instinctive.
"Careful," he said, his voice calm and unremarkable.
Then KI BA DAT turned and walked away.
By the time he reached the corner, the woman was already gone from his mind.
But Liễu Như Yên remained where she was.
The rain continued to fall, tapping softly against the fabric of her umbrella, yet she no longer noticed it. Her gaze followed the direction KI BA DAT had gone, not because she intended to pursue him, but because something inside her refused to let the moment dissolve.
It wasn't the gesture.
People helped her all the time.
It wasn't his voice.
It was ordinary.
It was the way KI BA DAT had looked at her.
No curiosity.
No calculation.
No fear.
Just acknowledgment.
For someone like Liễu Như Yên—someone who lived surrounded by expectations, assessments, and unspoken motives—that kind of gaze felt dangerously unfamiliar.
"He didn't see anything extra," she thought.
"He didn't take anything."
That night, Liễu Như Yên stood by the window of her apartment, city lights spread below like something carefully arranged. She replayed the scene in her mind, again and again, searching for a reason.
There was none.
And that disturbed her more than any explanation could have.
She sat down at her desk, opened her laptop, and typed a name she had no right to remember.
KI BA DAT.
She told herself it was curiosity.
She told herself it was harmless.
She told herself it would end the moment she understood who he was.
The information appeared easily.
Age.
Workplace.
Routine.
Ordinary.
Liễu Như Yên leaned back in her chair, fingers resting lightly against the desk.
"So this is what peace looks like," she thought.
In another part of the city, KI BA DAT prepared a simple dinner, unaware that his name had just settled into someone else's thoughts with alarming clarity.
He ate alone, as usual.
He cleaned up.
He went to bed.
KI BA DAT slept without dreams.
Liễu Như Yên did not sleep at all.
She did not feel excitement.
She did not feel desire.
What she felt was something quieter—and far more dangerous.
Relief.
"If someone like him exists," Liễu Như Yên thought,
"then maybe the world doesn't need to be so loud."
And somewhere deep within her mind, a boundary shifted—just slightly.
Not enough to be noticed.
Not enough to be questioned.
Just enough for KI BA DAT to remain.
If you want, I can now write PART TWO just as long, focusing on:
Liễu Như Yên observing KI BA DAT's daily life
The beginning of "help" that looks like coincidence
The first invisible line being crossed