By Ji-eun
Today, the cafe is full of normal people.
A student with headphones, racing to a deadline.
An elderly couple sharing a chestnut cake. A freelancer with three cups of coffee and the dark circles under his eyes of someone who lives on Wi-Fi and hope.
And for a moment, I can pretend.
Pretend I'm just a barista. That the biggest problem of the day is running out of skim milk. That the world is made of sunshine, laughter, and cinnamon rolls.
But then, I glance over to the corner.
The dokkaebi's chair is empty. But his coin is there. And the smell of wood smoke still lingers in the air. And in the basement, I hear the sounds of training. This morning, we agreed: today is the day to begin. Not to fight. To train. Because we discovered something important yesterday:
It's not enough to have power. We have to learn to use it together.
Min-jae set up a system in the basement—a secret room behind the pantry, its walls covered in protective symbols (copied from my grandmother's diary). It has cameras, spiritual energy sensors, and an old temple bell hanging from the ceiling.
"Let's test the limits," he said, adjusting his glasses.
"No risk. No possession. Just control."
First: Suah.
She's on her knees, hands on the ground, breathing deeply.
Her ability—Ancestral Strength—comes from channeling energy from ancient dokkaebi. But it's unstable. When she loses control, the energy escapes in waves that shatter walls.
"Try to feel the flow," I say, holding a cup of jujube root tea—it helps stabilize emotions.
"Don't force it. Let it come."
She breathes. Her fists glow a faint amber.
But then, her face tightens.
"I see her again…," she whispers.
"Mother… in the closet… the gwisin coming out of her eyes…"
"Come back," I say firmly.
"You're not there. You're here. And you're safe."
She opens her eyes.
The glow fades.
"I can't train without reviving," she says, her voice hoarse. "It's as if each blow forces me to remember."
"Then let's turn memory into strength," I say.
"Don't fight the past. Fight for who you want to protect now."
She looks at me.
And with a slow movement, she stands up.
She punches the air.
A small spiritual shock shakes the room.
"Next," she says.
With a weak smile.
"But no more memories, please."
Second: Hae-jun.
He stands before a large mirror, covered in runes.
"Fox Illusion requires emotional focus," he explains.
"If I'm insecure, the illusion crumbles. If I doubt myself... it doubts me."
"Show me something simple," I say.
He closes his eyes.
And in the mirror, another version of himself appears—with nine tails, golden eyes, and ancient enchanted fox clothes.
"It's her... my mother," he whispers.
"Before disappearing."
Suddenly, the image moves.
The fox in the mirror opens its mouth.
"Run, son. He already knows you're here."
Hae-jun recoils.
The mirror cracks.
"Who?" I ask.
"The King?"
"I don't know... but he has eyes everywhere.
Even in his reflections."
Min-jae looks at the sensors.
—"Ji-eun… the spiritual energy level has risen.
Something responded to the illusion."
—"What do you mean?"
—"As if it had been… called."
Silence.
—
Meanwhile, in the café… life goes on.
—"Ji-eun! Park-ssi's Americano!"
—"Coming soon!"
Serving coffee. Cleaning glasses. Smiling.
Everything normal.
Until, in the corner of the room, two men enter.
They wear work clothes.
But they're not human.
One has glass eyes.
The other, hands that won't stop shaking.
They are neutral spirits—not evil, but lost.
Regular customers of the café.
—"The usual, Ji-eun-ah," one says, his voice hoarse.
"Pine tea and a piece of bread."
— "Of course," I smile.
On the outside, normal.
On the inside, alert.
Because I know: if the cafe is a portal, anyone can enter.
Even those we don't want.
Later, in the alley behind the cafe…
Min-jae shows me a recording from the system.
It's audio captured the moment Hae-jun used the illusion.
Two gwisin are talking—distorted voices, as if coming from a well.
Gwisin 1: "He spoke to the fox. The Midnight Son."
Gwisin 2: "The King will know. He sees everything in the reflection."
Gwisin 1: "And the tea girl? Is she strong?"
Gwisin 2: "Not yet. But the group is forming. He fears it."
Gwisin 1: "Then we should attack first."
Gwisin 2: "No. He wants to see them grow. He wants them to suffer more before they break."
I turn off the audio.
"He wants us to fight," I say.
"He wants us to unite... so he can destroy everything at once."
Min-jae nods.
"The King is in no hurry.
He has patience.
And pain."
At the end of the day, the cafe closes.
I wipe the counter.
I turn off the lights.
The doorbell rings one last time.
But it's not a customer.
It's a sheet of paper on the floor.
With a single sentence, written in black ink:
"The broken unite.
What a beautiful spectacle."
It's unsigned.
But I feel it.
It's his.
The King.
Still invisible.
Still distant.
But watching.
I go up to the apartment.
I open the notebook.
I write:
"Today, we didn't beat anyone.
But we trained.
We talked.
We breathed together.
And for the first time…
I feel like we're becoming something real."
And below, I add:
"He sees us.
So let's become worthy of being seen."