Seoul, South Korea – 9:47 PM
Rain slicked the night streets of Seoul, the city alive with its late-night pulse—neon signs bleeding pink, purple, red, and electric blue onto puddled sidewalks like liquid confetti. The drizzle tapped gently against lecture hall windows, almost rhythmic. Almost hypnotic.
Zina didn't care. She was halfway through her escape ritual.
Her laptop was already closed, her notes shoved carelessly into her waterproof backpack, and her fingers drummed against the desk in impatient staccato. Class was over, technically, but the professor was still ranting about data encryption protocols like someone was going to kidnap his hard drive.
She glanced at the clock. 9:47 PM.
Good. Hana's class would still be running another twenty.
Time for ramen and soda pop, she thought.
She slipped out of the back row of the computer science lecture hall, ignoring the two dudes trying to whisper about her under their breath.
Probably talking about how "that hacker chick always looks like a walking Sanrio ad." Let them talk. Let them choke on her success later.
Outside, the rain greeted her with a soft hiss. The world was painted in neon now, and Zina? She matched it perfectly.
Wrapped in a bubble-pink raincoat, black boots splashing into puddles, and her short legs swinging with purpose, she strutted over to where her electric motorbike waited—sleek, custom-built by her own two hands. Matte black with neon pink decals, and one bold word painted across the side:
HALO.
She called it Bubbleburner.
With a hum and a flicker of LED lights, the bike powered up at her touch. Her smart watch buzzed, and her earpiece crackled with Hana's voice before she could even put her helmet on.
"You've been ignoring my calls for ten minutes," Hana whined. "Where are you?"
"I'm escaping before Professor Cho locks me in as a lab rat. What do you want?"
"Flour!" Hana chirped. Her end was loud—background noise of lectures, classmates laughing, probably someone snacking.
"Flour? For what?"
"We're baking for that charity event tomorrow, remember?"
Zina rolled her eyes and yanked on her helmet. "We? You mean you. I don't remember agreeing to any of that."
"Oh hush. It's good for you. You need to get outside, touch grass, breathe air that's not circulating through a hard drive."
"I pay our rent with those hard drives," she muttered, swinging her leg over the seat.
"And I bake the brownies that keep us emotionally alive. Now be a doll and grab flour, almond milk, and rainbow sprinkles. Pretty please."
Zina groaned as she revved the engine. "I hate you."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
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Zina pulled up to the nearest convenience store she could find, parking Bubbleburner with a dramatic lean beside a bunch of bland, corporate city bikes.
She left the engine humming. No one could touch it—not unless they wanted to be electrocuted and publicly shamed on the darknet. Biometric-locked, bitch.
Rain still fell in thin, silver threads as she walked in. The overhead chime dinged softly—too soft, almost guilty, like it knew it was interrupting her vengeance-fueled ramen mission.
She grabbed a basket and went aisle diving.
One bag of flour.
One carton of almond milk.
A pack of rainbow sprinkles that looked offensively cheerful.
Then, she paused.
There it was.
The last bottle of Cherry Vanilla Soda Pop, tucked at the back of the refrigerated shelf like a secret meant just for her. She reached for it like it was the Holy Grail.
"Hello, lover," she whispered.
As she approached the register, the cashier barely lifted his eyes. He scanned each item with the speed of a tired soul who hated capitalism but needed rent money.
Zina pulled out her masked card—an untraceable, black holo-chip with no name, just a shimmering crescent sigil on the front. She held it up. The scanner beeped. Payment accepted.
"Have a good night," the cashier said in a voice devoid of life.
"You too," Zina chirped, too peppy for 10PM and armed with sugar.
She walked out, paper bag hugged to her chest like a baby, slid her helmet back on, and climbed onto Bubbleburner with a purr of satisfaction.
Then her watch buzzed.
She glanced down.
Transaction Complete: ₩12,000,000.
Her lips curled into a slow, delicious grin.
"Jackpot."
The apartment lights greeted her with a soft hum, motion sensors flickering on pinks and whites across her high-security loft. The place was a warzone of mismatched tastes—Hana's calm mint-blue minimalism clashing against Zina's wild pink-and-black chaos.
One side of the living room looked like a Pinterest board: pastel mugs lined up, succulents in handmade ceramic pots, a quote board that read "Simplicity is Bliss." The other half? Neon signage that said "404: Feelings Not Found," game cartridges stacked like ancient scrolls, and plushies in devil horns lounging across a black leather beanbag.
The kitchen was shared neutral ground—sleek, modern, metallic—but even there, the pink skull-shaped cookie jar beside a tray of herbal teas screamed of their split personalities.
Zina beelined for the counter and dumped the baking ingredients carelessly, the flour bag bouncing with a dusty sigh. She twisted open a cherry vanilla soda pop, the hiss of carbonation music to her ears, and took a long sip before grabbing the preheated kettle. The metallic thermos sat under a 'Ramen is Love' sticker, faithfully keeping her water scalding hot.
She poured it into her bowl, dropped the noodles like a soldier deploying a mission, tore the packet with the skill of a hacker disarming malware, and padded barefoot down the hallway.
Her room lit up as soon as she stepped in.
Pink LED strips curved around her ceiling, casting soft magenta hues over walls plastered in vintage hacker posters, K-pop memes, and blueprints of drones and mechanical designs. Byte's charging pod glowed faintly by the bookshelf. He blinked awake, robotic eyes flickering to life with a sharp whirr, and trotted over to greet her.
Stuffed animals cluttered her shelves and bed—some pristine, others worn out from years of comfort. A giant pink whale she called "Commander Blush," a stitched-together plushie shaped like a bug-eyed frog in a hoodie named "Kroak," and in the center of her bed...
Tiko.Old. Faded. A small raccoon plushie with a chewed ear. The first toy a boy ever gave her.
She didn't notice it now.
"Hey, demon," she muttered, ruffling Byte's head. "Guess who just got paid?"
Byte meowed once, judgmental.
She snickered, then collapsed into her curved pink gaming chair, the seat hissing slightly under her as she dropped the ramen and soda pop on her desk like a shrine. Her fingers danced on the laptop.
A black screen blinked. Then loaded.
Numbers. Transfer logs. Confirmation stamps. ₩12,000,000. Neat. Secure. Untouchable.
Zina leaned back, noodles steaming beside her. "Alright," she purred. "Cold, hard cash for a quick snatch. I couldn't be more—"
The screen flickered.
A red box bloomed like blood across the UI.
SECURITY BREACH DETECTED.
Zina's eyes narrowed. Her lips twitched.
"Ohhh… cute."
She cracked her knuckles and leaned in.
This wasn't her first break-in attempt.
She wrote the encryption that her clients paid millions for. No one got in. Not without her consent.
Fingers flew. Protocols engaged. Firewall reset. Signal trace rerouted. Lockdown re-established.
She leaned back in her seat, smug as hell.
"Threat neutralized."
Byte jumped onto her lap, curling into a warm ball of vibrating tech. She stroked his back, lifted her chopsticks, and lifted a steaming bite of ramen to her lips—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Her body stiffened.
Byte sprang off her lap in a hiss of metallic fury. His ears twitched wildly.
The screen glitched. Then stabilized. And another message pulsed in blood-red across her desktop:
UNIDENTIFIED HEAT SIGNATURE DETECTED.
Location: BEDROOM DOOR.
Zina's stomach bottomed out.
Her blood ran cold.
She reached forward, hands shaking, and flipped through her internal camera feeds.
There it was.
A figure.
Tall. Still. Cloaked in shadow.
Standing right. Outside. Her. Door.
Her breath hitched.
"No… No one gets through that door..."
Not unless they slipped through during the 17.3 seconds the breach was open.
And even that was near-impossible.
Her heart thundered. Her body reacted before her brain caught up.
She reached under her desk, flipping a latch hidden beneath her gaming table, and pulled out a yoyo—black, glossy, wrapped with razor-thin iron wire. Custom-forged. Deadly.
Byte snarled.
The door creaked.
Zina took a step back, eyes locked, chest rising fast.
The door exploded inward.