Seoul's underground subway system roared with the rhythm of routine. The harsh fluorescent lights, the muted chatter of commuters, and the familiar hum of arriving trains all blended into the city's nightly lullaby. It was a place where faces blurred, where anonymity reigned supreme.
Near the far end of the platform, by an old vending machine that often jammed when it rained, a man stood with the ease of familiarity. Mid-40s, dressed in a beige trench coat with a faintly worn briefcase in hand. His back leaned against the tiled wall casually, as though he had no urgent place to be.
The Salesman.
To most, he looked like another weary salaryman waiting for his late train. But hidden within his coat, snug in the inner pocket, was a red envelope — sleek, minimal, sealed with gold trim. It wasn't addressed to anyone.
Yet.
He didn't know who he was waiting for tonight.
He just had a feeling.
As the next train thundered into the station, a crowd formed, then thinned again. But one figure lingered.
A teenager ,maybe eighteen or nineteen, slouched slightly as he approached the vending machine. He wore a grey hoodie, black pants, and had a pair of wireless earphones dangling loosely around his neck. His posture was casual, his face boyish and unassuming. Just another student, probably heading home after cram school.
He gave the machine a practiced slap, and a bottle of water tumbled out.
"Finally," he muttered under his breath, bending to pick it up.
The Salesman didn't react outwardly, but his eyes flicked briefly toward the boy.
The boy noticed.
"Old machine," the teen said lightly, straightening up and meeting the man's eyes. "Hasn't worked properly in a year. But if you hit it just right..." He took a sip. "It obeys."
The Salesman offered a neutral smile.
"You come here often?" the boy asked.
"Sometimes."
"Funny. I see you here a lot. Same time. Same spot. Like you're part of the platform."
The Salesman raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Most people barely noticed him. This one had been watching.
"Maybe I just like the quiet here."
"Mm. Me too." The teen leaned against the vending machine, mirroring the Salesman's posture. "I'm Jae."
A name. Not an alias. Not Specter.
Just Jae.
The Salesman hesitated a moment before replying, "Nice to meet you, Jae."
"I'm guessing you're not really waiting for a train."
"Why do you say that?"
Jae shrugged. "You never look at the schedule board. And you never check your phone."
He chuckled softly. "Maybe I just enjoy people-watching."
Jae smiled. "So do I. Like that guy," he nodded toward a man frantically patting down his pockets. "He forgot his wallet. Probably his third time this week. And that lady over there? She's not going home. She's heading back to the office. See how she keeps checking her tablet like it's going to grow teeth?"
The Salesman studied him now, not just his words, but his mannerisms. He was sharp. Observant. But not in a way that screamed genius — more like someone who had long since grown bored of pretending otherwise.
"You've got a good eye," he said cautiously.
"I just notice things," Jae said. "People. Patterns."
He wasn't being threatening. He wasn't being smug. He was just… talking.
Like a teenager might. But with an odd clarity.
The Salesman looked away for a moment, pretending to watch the crowd.
"You a student?" he asked.
"I was. Sort of still am. I study what interests me."
"And what's that?"
Jae grinned. "People. And the games they play."
The sentence had a double edge, but Jae said it like it was nothing. Just idle conversation.
A train rolled in, its screech echoing through the tunnel.
"Let me guess," Jae said, stepping closer. "You're in sales?"
The man blinked. "What gave me away?"
"People who lie for a living always have the calmest voices. It's like they know every question you'll ask before you ask it."
He let the statement hang, then added with a chuckle, "Don't worry. I lie too."
"Do you?"
"Only when I need to."
The crowd began to board the train. Neither of them moved.
"I think you're looking for someone," Jae said casually.
"And if I was?"
Jae shrugged again. "Then I hope they find you first."
The Salesman watched him. The easy smile. The calm tone. The way he never once glanced at the red envelope.
He's toying with me, the Salesman thought. But not dangerously. Not provocatively.
Just playfully.
As if he knew exactly where the line was drawn and had no intention of crossing it.
The train doors closed. Another few minutes until the next one.
Jae didn't seem like he was in a hurry.
"You believe in luck?" he asked suddenly.
"No."
"Me neither."
A pause.
"I believe in being seen at the right moment. By the right people."
Still no questions. Still no hint of recognition about the envelope. Still no mention of anything sensitive.
Just a teenager having a weirdly insightful conversation.
The Salesman thought carefully. It wasn't protocol to offer the invitation this way. But protocols were written for patterns. This boy wasn't a pattern. He was something else.
"You like games?" the Salesman asked.
Jae tilted his head. "Depends on the prize."
"Sometimes it's not about winning. Sometimes it's just about seeing who's willing to play."
Jae smiled. "I'm always willing. The question is — are you?"
The Salesman reached slowly into his coat.
There were no alarms. No alerts. No digital pings.
Only his gut.
He held out the envelope.
Jae stared at it.
For a moment, he made no move.
Then, gently, he took it.
From his briefcase, he pulled out a folded piece of red and blue origami paper. The square was crisp. Clean. Like it had never touched the floor.
"Ever played ddakji?" he asked.
Jae's eyes flickered, amused. "You're really pulling that one out?"
"It's tradition," the man replied. "Besides, it's harmless fun."
"I guess that depends on how hard you throw."
The Salesman crouched, setting the blue piece flat on the subway floor. He handed the red one to Jae.
"Your move."
Jae crouched opposite, studying the square like it was an unfamiliar puzzle. He weighed the red piece in his palm, testing its balance. Then, without warning, he flicked it down,sharp, fast.
SMACK.
The tiles echoed with the sound, but the blue square didn't flip.
"Close," the Salesman said.
"First round's always just calibration," Jae replied, retrieving his tile. "Now let's see how you throw."
The Salesman grinned, letting his piece fly. It hit clean,and flipped the blue one instantly.
"That's one," he said.
Jae raised an eyebrow. "You've been practicing."
"I have my moments."
They went again. Jae missed the second time, but not by much. The third round, however, he crouched lower, eyes gleaming with quiet focus. His wrist snapped, a perfect angle, and SMACK , the red tile slammed the blue one clean over.
"Nice," the Salesman said.
"You said it's about seeing who's willing to play." Jae stood and dusted off his hands. "So. You saw me."
The Salesman stared at him for a moment. The ease. The control. The way he never looked surprised ,only amused, like he'd predicted everything before it happened.
Then came the moment.
He reached into his coat.
There were no alarms. No alerts. No digital pings.
Only instinct.
He held out the red envelope , sleek, minimal, sealed with gold trim.
"Congratulations," the Salesman said. "You've been noticed."
Jae stared at it, unmoving.
Then, slowly, his hand reached forward. Fingers brushed the edge.
He took it.
The envelope was heavier than it looked.
I turned it over in my hand as if I hadn't already memorized every detail from the hours I'd spent tracking others who'd received the same.
Red. Smooth. Sealed in gold trim.
Beautifully theatrical.
I didn't look at the Salesman. I didn't need to. I felt his eyes on me , waiting for a reaction, measuring me for cracks. There were none.
Instead, I gave a soft laugh. Not loud. Just enough to feel human.
"I've never been good at surprises," I said, slipping the envelope into my hoodie pocket like it meant nothing. "But I'll play along."
He gave nothing away in return , no nod, no smirk. A true professional.
But I saw it. That brief flicker behind his eyes. Wary interest.
Good.
He didn't know me. Not really. Just "Jae," a bored teen too clever for his own good.
Not Specter.
Not yet.
The game had finally reached out its hand and I had taken it.
Not by force.
Not by confrontation.
But by invitation.
Exactly as planned.
The train screeched again in the distance. I glanced at it as if remembering I had somewhere to be.
"I'll see you around, Mister Salesman," I said casually, stepping away from the vending machine.
And then, just before I disappeared into the crowd, I let my lips curl ever so slightly into a smile I knew he'd never forget.
Let him think he found me.
Let him think this was his idea.
That's the only way this game works.
I walked away, the red envelope pulsing like a heart in my pocket.
Not as a player.
Not yet.
But as the beginning of something far, far bigger.