Dong-seung was inside the kitchen. The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of his knife against the cutting board was a welcome, meditative sound. He skillfully prepared his only dish: Fried Rice. The two must-have ingredients for him—shrimp and scallops—glistened, fresh beside a bowl of day-old rice, the real secret to the perfect texture.
He whipped the eggs into a uniform, sunny yellow and poured them into the hot wok.
WHIRR
Now into the pan!
WOOOSH
The sizzle was immediate, a satisfying burst of sound and aroma that filled the small apartment. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he spread the egg into a golden lace before adding the rice, the seafood, and a generous dash of soy sauce. The kitchen filled with a fragrant, savory steam.
He filled two bowls, a small gesture of routine he'd fallen into. One for him, one for Seo-yeon.
Twenty minutes passed. He finished his meal, the empty bowl sitting before him, but Seo-yeon's remained untouched. Her door was shut, a silent, stubborn barrier. The apartment was too quiet.
Then, his phone shattered the silence.
RING—RING
"Hello, Mr. Dong-seung. It's Mr. Kornberg. I'm afraid we have a serious problem with the National Tax Service."
He paused, choosing his words with care. "Despite our filings, the NTS has taken an... aggressive stance. They are refusing to see the car as a simple gift. They are treating it as a taxable event for you personally."
"We've argued, but they won't budge. If this tax isn't paid, they will freeze your assets and impose heavy penalties. They don't care about the logical chain; they just see an asset and a taxpayer."
"To resolve this, we have no choice but to settle their demand. We've organized a secure payment plan through Deutsche Bank AG to act as a neutral escrow. For your convenience, AMEX Korea will be your single point of contact. They will manage all the paperwork and facilitate the monthly transactions. The terms are 25.4 million Won per month for three years. This isn't a loan for a gift; it's a necessary step to get the NTS off your back."
"And, to be fully transparent, the situation with your backup vehicle is also stalled. It's already here in Korea, sitting at the Incheon port, but customs has flagged it. We can't get a clear reason for the hold-up. Our legal department is working on it, but for now, it's stuck."
Dong-seung asked, "Mr. Kornberg, because of a break-in, my S-Class was lightly damaged. I need it repaired."
"Consider it handled," Kornberg replied, his tone shifting to one of effortless efficiency. "This is exactly the kind of incidental cost our service relationship with AMEX Korea is designed for. They are your local facilitator for everything—from managing the tax payments to handling repairs. I will trigger the process immediately. Their concierge will call you within two business days to arrange a certified detailer and a loaner car. Just send me the photos. There will be no expense to you."
As the call ended, Dong-seung was left with the ghost of Kornberg's voice and the profound silence of the apartment. The fried rice sat heavily in his stomach.
His eyes drifted back to Seo-yeon's door. The uneaten food was one thing; this utter silence was another. A prickle of concern, sharper than before, cut through his own frustrations.
He walked over and knocked softly. "Seo-yeon? The food is getting cold."
No answer.
He tried the knob. It was unlocked. He pushed the door open slowly.
The room was dim, the air thick and still. Seo-yeon was a small lump under her blankets, but he could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead in the sliver of light from the hall. Her breathing was shallow and ragged.
"Hey," he said, his voice softening.
She stirred weakly, her eyes fluttering open. "I'm fine. Just tired."
He didn't believe her for a second. He moved closer and placed the back of his hand against her forehead. It was furnace-hot. "You're burning up."
He left and returned with a glass of water and two fever reducers. "Here. You need to drink."
She was too weak to protest. He helped prop her up, his arm a firm support behind her back. He felt the heat radiating through her pajamas. After she swallowed the pills, he looked at the empty bowl. Food was out of the question, but she needed something.
He went back to the kitchen, scooped a small portion of the remaining rice into a smaller bowl, and added a bit of hot water to make a gentle porridge. Returning, he sat on the edge of her bed. "Just a little," he murmured, spoon-feeding her with a patience that surprised even him. She managed a few meek swallows before turning her head away, exhausted.
An hour later, her hair was plastered to her damp temples. The fever was breaking, but it had left her drenched and miserable.
"You can't stay in these wet clothes," he said, his voice practical, stripping the situation of any awkwardness. He ran a basin of warm water, found a clean washcloth, and returned. He didn't make a big production of it. He gently wiped the sweat from her face, her neck, her arms. It was a simple, clinical act of care, but in the quiet of the room, it felt profoundly intimate. She was too weak to be embarrassed, her eyes closed, submitting to his ministrations with a soft sigh.
Once she was clean and in dry clothes, he didn't want to leave her in the stuffy room. "Come on," he whispered, scooping her up, blankets and all. She was light in his arms. He carried her to the living room and settled her on the large couch, tucking the blankets around her before taking a seat at the opposite end.
The television was on, casting flickering blue light across the room, but neither was watching. The only sounds were the low murmur of a late-night documentary and her steadying breath. The space between them was charged with a new, unspoken understanding. The cold fear from Kornberg's call had been replaced by a warm, protective urgency.
Eventually, her breathing evened out into the deep, regular rhythm of sleep. Dong-seung, drained by the day's events, felt his own eyelids grow heavy. He slid down, making himself comfortable, and surrendered to sleep right there, a silent sentinel on his end of the couch.
He didn't know how much time had passed when a shift in weight, a faint scent of clean skin and soap, roused him from a shallow sleep. He was too tired to open his eyes, registering it as a dream.
But when he stirred properly, in the deep, dark quiet before dawn, the reality was unmistakable. The space between them on the couch was gone. Seo-yeon was curled not at the other end, but beside him. Her head was a gentle weight against his shoulder, her breath a warm whisper on his neck. But his exhaustion pulled his eyes shut again.
…
A weight settled on his legs, firm and definite. A scent cut through the haze—overwhelming and intimate. Peaches and soap.
Am I dreaming? Shit…
His eyes snapped open.
Seo-yeon was perched on his legs, watching him. Her expression was unreadable, but a fierce intensity in her gaze held no trace of sleep.
Shit!? A lucid dream? Why isn't she saying anything?
"Seo-yeon?" His voice was rough with sleep.
Silence. She just stared, letting the tension coil in the pre-dawn stillness.
Her voice, when it came, was low and clear, cutting through the quiet like a blade.
"Now do you see me, Dong-seung?"
Oh hell naw! Did aliens abduct me and do weird experiments, like in South Park? What the actual fuck? This shit only happens in Romcoms… or Anime.
She leaned in closer. Her grin widened, and she grabbed both of his burning cheeks, forcing his gaze to hold hers.
"Now. Do you see me, Dong-seung?"
A beat of silence. The words escaped him in a rushed, breathless exhale, a surrender to the bizarre reality of the moment.
"Yes, Ma'am."
The grin softened. In an instant, the intense pressure vanished, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming warmth as she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
His cheeks flushed a deeper, impossible red.
"Let's stay like this for a while," she murmured into his neck.
He could feel every one of her rhythmic, warm breaths against his skin.
Shit. Am I fucked? Well, I think I should do something, or else I'll maybe get scolded just like in the old times.
He slowly and gently stroked her hair.
"Aghh!"
She clamped onto him more tightly. Wrong move. Wrong move! Abort! His mind screamed, but his hand, seemingly of its own volition, continued its path, smoothing down the strands of her hair again. He was trapped in the best and worst prison imaginable, and the warden was a girl who smelled of peaches.
He started to lose consciousness.
Shit, my mind… Fuck!
Darkness.
"Dong-seung? Dong-seung!" she yelled.
His vision cleared, the world resolving into a single, terrifying image: Seo-yeon's face, wet with tears, her features twisted in pure distress.
His brain, scrambling for solid ground in this emotional quagmire, latched onto the first coherent thought it could find.
"The greatest wealth," he mumbled, his voice hazy and detached, "is to live content with little."
Seo-yeon's crying hitched. She stared at him, utterly bewildered. "What?"
"Ah," he said, as if noting the source of a programming error. "From Plato."
Her confusion only deepened, a fresh wave of tears welling in her eyes. The philosophical nugget had done nothing to stem the waterfall; if anything, it had made everything more profoundly, bafflingly awkward.
"What is wrong with you?! I thought you were dying!"
Her fear twisted into frustration, and she started hitting him, light, repetitive thumps against his chest that spoke more of panic than pain.
The blows, more than the fainting spell, finally jolted his mind back online.
Did I just get choked out? Fucking hell.
The fog lifted, leaving a cold, clear emptiness. The question echoed in the void: What was my purpose? Why did I stroke her hair…
The answer that came up from the depths was instantly rejected.
Shit, I don't know. I don't like admitting that even to myself.
His mind, seeking a hard reboot, identified the most immediate system irregularity: Her. On top of me.
With a grunt of effort, he hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her straight up and off of him, depositing her onto the couch cushions beside him as if moving a piece of furniture.
The sudden, undignified relocation left Seo-yeon stunned. Her tears vanished, replaced by a flush of heat that rushed to her cheeks.
Ahhhhh, this guy! LETS GO! her mind screamed, a chaotic mix of indignation and wild, unfounded hope.
But when she opened her eyes, the reality was far less romantic. She was simply… sitting on the couch. Alone.
Dong-seung, his mission accomplished, had already turned his back. He was on the floor, intently scratching behind Agito's ears, fully absorbed in the simple, predictable task of petting the dog. The dog looked less grumpy now, seeming to settle down.
It was a peace treaty signed and sealed. Or so he thought.
"Attack!"
Seo-yeon's war cry shattered the calm an instant before her arms did, locking around his torso in a firm, inescapable hug from behind. The ambush was complete.
"Oh hell naw!" he said, shocked. He let his body go completely dead weight, slumping forward onto the rug. "Fine. You win. I have been captured. Execute your prisoner and be done with it."
Agito, meanwhile, was smiling like a madman.
You evil fucker!