The night shift in a convenience store has a kind of emptiness you can't really describe.
After 1 a.m., the whole street is kept alive only by the cold glow of signboards.Outside, a modified motorbike sometimes roars past, the sound drifting over from some distant place, nothing to do with me.
I stand behind the counter, scrolling through the group chat for part-timers.I tug my mask down a little so I can breathe.
The screen is full of complaints:
— "I'm quitting."— "Got puked on by a drunk today."— "Night shift is gonna kill me early."
I look for a second and lock my phone.
If it were my turn to complain, it'd probably boil down to one line:
"Feels like I was born just to live my whole life in a place like this."
The sensor on the door gives a soft ding.
I look up, already knowing who it is.
It's the man who comes around this time every night, buying the same energy drink.
When he pushes the door open, a bit of wet night air comes in with him.He walks slower than most customers, like each step is testing whether the floor will collapse.
He's tall—at least over 180 cm—but his back is always slightly hunched.A black hoodie zipped all the way up, hood down, brim shadows half his face.His hair is short, black, soft-looking, fringe resting just above his brows, covering part of his eyes.The light from above cuts his nose and profile into clean lines.
That face could be handsome.
But he keeps himself small, compressed, like he's afraid of taking up too much space.
The first time I saw him, I thought he was just an ordinary customer.The second, the third, the fourth…When I realized his arrival time matched my shift almost perfectly, I knew it wasn't a coincidence.
He always stands a little too long in front of the fridge, yet picks the same drink every time.At the register, he shakes his head before I can even ask "Need a bag?"When he hands me the money, he's careful—painfully careful—to avoid touching my fingers.
In my head, I quietly call him Silent Man.
Tonight, Silent Man looks a bit different.
His fringe is damp, like he got caught in the rain.Drops slide from his temple down to his jaw, trailing along the clean line of his neck before disappearing beneath his collarbone.
He walks to the fridge, opens the door, and white mist spills around his face.For a second, I feel like he's something trapped behind that glass—not a tired night-shift customer, but something the world has locked away.
Or maybe it's just my brain rotting from too many night shifts.
"Good evening," I say, forcing myself awake.
He startles slightly—like a small animal caught in sudden light—before replying softly, "…Good evening."
His voice is clean, a little hoarse, like something is pressed against his throat.
He sets the can on the scanner.One beep.I tell him the price.
As he reaches for his wallet, I take another look.
His eyelashes are long.
Not the thick, dramatic kind—just long enough to cast a faint shadow.Like he's hiding a lot of words he refuses to say.
I stare for half a second—literally half a second—and he notices.
He jerks his head up.Our eyes meet.I try to look away, but he's faster.He turns aside sharply, placing his coins on the edge of the counter with curled, tense fingers.
The movement gives me a sudden illusion—
I'm not the one watching him.He's the one desperately trying not to watch me.
The door sensor rings again.
"Ding—"
This time, the sound is sharper, like someone scraped a blade along glass.
Instinctively, I look up.
Another man walks in—someone who absolutely does not belong here.
The Long-Haired Man.
He's about as tall as Silent Man, but unlike him, he makes no effort to shrink himself.When he enters, his presence presses into the room—not loud, not aggressive, but quietly invasive.He moves casually, yet the entire space seems to rearrange itself to give him the center.
The cold white light of the convenience store lands on him like it's been re-defined.
His hair is long, black with a bluish sheen, falling behind his shoulders.Smooth, but not soft—more like something that would feel cool to the touch.The ends brush his waist, swaying slightly like ink lines on water.
His skin is pale.Not sickly pale.Not "never goes outside" pale.But a kind of pale that doesn't belong in this era.
His features are almost too clean.Straight brows, slightly deep-set eyes, narrow and slightly upturned.A hint of coldness at the corners.A sharp, straight nose.Lips shaped like they belonged in a painting; color nearly the same as his skin.
If he stood next to a cosmetics counter, he'd be mistaken for the brand's life-sized display model.
But he walks into this place—with oily floors and expired promotion stickers on every wall.
And the moment he steps in, the air feels colder.Not imagination.The hair on my arms stands up.
The Long-Haired Man doesn't look at the shelves.His eyes go straight to the corner—straight to Silent Man.
The look is too direct.Borderline rude.Almost cruel.
Silent Man freezes.
His back stiffens.His fingers whiten around the can.Even the rhythm of his breathing breaks.
He doesn't move aside, doesn't step back.He stands like someone cornered against a wall—except behind him is just rows of drinks.
It's the first time I've seen him like this—not quiet, not avoiding—but something awakened inside him, something he's desperately trying to hold down.
The Long-Haired Man approaches slowly.
His steps are light, steady, precise.Even if the floor was wet, I'm sure he wouldn't slip.
Not caution—control.Total control over his body.
He stops one arm's length away.
Up close, he's even more unnervingly beautiful—dark, fine lashes,eyes deep brown with a tint of red under the lights,pupils narrowed,gaze examining Silent Man with a predator's interest.
His lips curl slightly.
That small curve is enough to feel unreal.
"Found you at last."
His voice is low and clear, like a thin line scoring glass.Not a greeting.Not casual.A statement—one that's been certain for a long time.
Silent Man swallows, jaw tightening.
He doesn't answer.
The Long-Haired Man's gaze drifts over him, slow and deliberate, confirming something long-lost but familiar.It pauses briefly on the hand gripping the can.
"Hiding in a place like this… amusing," he murmurs.
"But the hiding spot…"He lifts his eyes—and now looks at me.
My heart stumbles—just once.
His eyes aren't particularly large, but they have a weight to them.Like he's seen too much, and nothing impresses him anymore.
He isn't interested in me—but being seen by him feels wrong on a biological level.
"...too obvious," he finishes.
He says it like commenting on shelf arrangements—too casual, too indifferent.
Silent Man suddenly steps forward, putting himself between us.
The movement is so fast the security camera might catch only a blur.
My pupils contract.
Silent Man—the person who avoids even brushing my fingers at checkout—is now standing like a shield, straight-backed, shoulders wide.
"…Don't look at her."
His voice is soft, but clear.
The Long-Haired Man blinks in surprise, then laughs.A light sound, but full of unpleasant amusement—like he's found a new toy.
"Playing the protector now?" he says lazily."How ironic."
His gaze shifts past Silent Man's shoulder—toward me, but not on me.More like toward the direction.
"Well then…" He tilts his head slightly. "Let's follow the old rule."
"This isn't—" Silent Man begins.
"—a knight's duel," the Long-Haired Man finishes for him."You haven't forgotten."
"This is the 21st century," Silent Man grits out."This is a convenience store in the city center, not—"
"Location is never the problem."The Long-Haired Man's smile deepens."The rule is the same."
He draws a small circle in the air with one finger.
It's a simple gesture—yet the sounds around us suddenly dull.The hum of the AC, the fridge motor, the distant traffic—all sink quietly into the background.
"Winner gains ownership of the target."His tone turns almost gentle."Loser loses everything."
Only then do I realize—
The "target" is me.
My grip tightens around the pen in my hand, knuckles aching.
"She's not an object," Silent Man mutters, each word forced out like it hurts."That rule should've been thrown in the trash ages ago."
"But you were the one who kept obeying it, weren't you?"The Long-Haired Man's voice stays calm—too calm."You hid here.Watched her work.Watched her get called around by annoying customers.And said nothing."
His tone is so casual that it becomes cruel.
"From the start, you treated her like something untouchable—"He pauses."—no different from a caged collectible."
Silent Man snaps his head up.For an instant, something red flashes in his eyes—not a bloodshot red.Something deeper.More dangerous.Gone in a blink.
I rub my eyes, wondering if I'm hallucinating from lack of sleep.
"Enough." Silent Man's voice is hoarse."Don't talk about her—"
"She can't understand anyway," the Long-Haired Man cuts in."Right?"
He gives me a polite smile.Almost.
"Miss… we're talking about some old rules.Don't mind it."
My throat feels dry.
"Both of you… if you want to argue…"I swallow."…can you not do it in front of the register?"
Under normal circumstances, that'd be rude.Right now, it sounds like pleading.
The Long-Haired Man blinks.
"See?" he says to Silent Man."She doesn't even know she's involved."
Silent Man doesn't answer.
A heavy wrongness spreads in my chest.I feel like I'm standing between two different stories.One is the convenience store I know—shifts, group chats, boredom.The other is something ancient, something that shouldn't exist, bleeding into this place through these two men.
The Long-Haired Man seems to make a decision."I don't like dragging things out," he says.
"Tomorrow night. Same time."
He taps a finger lightly on the counter.A simple sound—yet it feels like a verdict.
"The result of the duel…"His voice softens."…will decide who she stays with."
He doesn't look at me again as he leaves.
The sensor dings.A breeze slips inside.
I watch his silhouette fade into the night.His long hair draws a dark line under the streetlights before vanishing.
The store falls silent again.Only the fridge motor hums.
I realize I'm still clutching the pen.My palm is damp with sweat.
"…Do you know him?"I ask the man still standing between me and the exit.
For the first time, I'm this close to Silent Man.His eyes are dark—darker than most people's—like soaked in night.A sheen of sweat on his forehead trails down his temple.His lips are pale from being bitten too hard, giving his gentle features an edge.
He stares at the door for a long moment before lowering his gaze.
"…Sorry," he says first."For dragging you into this."
"Wait," I frown."What duel? What ownership? What kind of chuuni nonsense—"
"Don't worry about him."He cuts me off abruptly.
This time, his gaze meets mine directly.No avoidance.
And I realize—his eyes are beautiful.
Not soft.But the kind that stay locked tight all the time—and when they open, they shine too sharply.
"You just…"He hesitates, choosing his words."…don't come to work tomorrow."
That comes out of nowhere.
"What? But I'm scheduled—the manager will kill me if—"
"Better to be yelled at by your manager… than noticed by him," he says quietly.
"Who is he?" I ask.
Silent Man stays silent for a few seconds.
"…An old companion," he finally says."Someone far more dangerous than me."
He pauses.Unsatisfied with his own explanation.
"Or…"He lifts his eyes again."If I have to put it in words you'll understand—"
"He's the kind of person who'd watch the world burn and think it looks beautiful."
I don't know whether to laugh or shiver.
Silent Man takes a slow breath—like making a hard choice.
"So please," he says."Don't come here tomorrow."
There's something in his voice I've never heard before—not politeness,not distance,but something almost desperate.
And suddenly I realize—
Before that Long-Haired Man walked in,this convenience store was just a place for me to earn an hourly wage.
Now, it's a dueling ground.And I am the prize.
I don't like that role.
But what unsettles me more is—
I can't immediately say no.
Because in Silent Man's eyes, there's a panic so raw it feels like if I say "I'm coming to work anyway,"I'll push open a door he desperately wants to keep closed.
Night deepens.The store's cold light is still harsh,but it's no longer the familiar, dull, sleepy place it was.
I lower my gaze and tap the counter lightly.
"…I'll think about it," I hear myself say.
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know—
After tomorrow,my life probably won't return to the line it used to follow.