The noise began beside his head, sharp and ugly, the kind of sound that felt like it was drilling directly into the bone.
Minhyuk reached blindly across the floor mat, his palm slapping against the cracked screen of the cheap phone until the sound finally stopped, and when he opened his eyes, the room greeted him with the weak, false light of late afternoon leaking through the paper-thin window.
The clock said five in the evening, and the weight of that number pressed down on him immediately, because it meant another day had disappeared without resistance, written off entirely to sleep, the kind of heavy sleep that belonged to a man who no longer had anywhere to go.
As he forced himself onto one elbow, the phone buzzed once more, softer this time, polite and patient, and Minhyuk already knew what it was before his fingers touched the screen. He stared at it for a moment, breathing slowly, telling himself not to hope, because hope always arrived late and empty. Then he opened the message.
Thank you for your interest. After careful consideration, we regret to inform you that we will not be moving forward with your application. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.
The words were clean, gentle, arranged carefully so that no one could accuse them of cruelty, yet they landed like a blunt object all the same. Minhyuk read it once, then again, just to make sure nothing had changed, just to confirm the familiar truth that the world still had no place for him.
This was the twentieth time he had read words like these, twenty polite doors closing in perfect order, sealing away the name of a man who had once been called a champion and now existed only as a problem no one wanted to inherit.
He pushed himself onto his feet and walked to the narrow sink, brushing his teeth with cold water, tasting and old failure on his tongue, watching his reflection avoid his eyes as if ashamed to meet them directly.
When he reached into his pocket afterward, his fingers touched the last remaining money, five thousand won, smooth and useless, the final proof that this was not a temporary situation but a finished fact.
There was no hidden money, no forgotten savings, no safety left at all.
The gosiwon room was silent except for the distant sound of pipes and footsteps, but the memory of his father never left it, stained into every wall, because this was where the man had collapsed three years ago, heart finally giving in after a lifetime of quiet endurance.
Minhyuk closed his eyes and held onto the memory of his father's voice, low and steady, reminding him to live properly, to stand straight, to survive even when dignity felt expensive. That instruction remained, even now.
He pulled on the old gray pajama shirt, loose and too long, its sleeves hanging deliberately over his hands, hiding the size and strength that always drew judgmental eyes. This was not clothing but camouflage.
He lifted the empty plastic crate and stepped out to the street, shoulders set, accepting the humiliation without argument, because today he would sell apples and pears, and tomorrow, he would do it again.
The market welcomed him the same way it always did, with noise that never paused, sellers shouting prices, buyers yelling accusations, voices layering over one another until meaning dissolved into raw volume.
Minhyuk stood behind his small cart and added his own voice to the chaos, rough and restrained as he called out for people to buy, each word scraping his throat as if it resented being used for survival rather than pride.
An old woman stopped in front of him, her movements slow and familiar, her eyes kind in a way that felt dangerous, because kindness always invited honesty. She picked up an apple, weighing it in her palm, then looked up at him with concern already written across her face.
"Aigoo, Minhyuk-ah," she said gently, her voice warm despite the cold season. "You look exhausted. Are you eating well these days? Do you still have your strength?"
Minhyuk smiled, or at least shaped his mouth into something that looked like one, and nodded as if the question were light. "I'm fine, Ajumma. I'm still strong eh," he said, then flexed his arm briefly, showing her just enough to reassure her without revealing too much. "Strong enough to break stones if I have to."
She laughed, a real laugh, the kind that didn't pity him, and was about to speak again when everything shattered at once.
Three young men rushed past them, moving too fast and too close, and before Minhyuk could even finish turning his head, the Ajumma's bag was ripped from her shoulder, her voice breaking into a scream as shock froze her feet in place.
Minhyuk did not think. His body moved before his mind finished processing the scene, feet pounding against pavement as he chased them down the street, his breath steady, his pace relentless.
The boys glanced back, cursing loudly when they realized he was not slowing, darting into the maze of narrow alleys where shadows clung to the walls and the smell of damp concrete filled the air.
Minhyuk followed without hesitation, choosing turns with instinct rather than sight, his trained body remembering speeds and shortcuts even when his life had forgotten purpose.
They stopped in a small courtyard, panting and laughing nervously, convinced they had escaped, until a heavy presence landed behind them with a soft, final sound.
Minhyuk dropped from the wall above, blocking the only exit, his shadow stretching long across the ground.
"Fuck," one of them spat, breath shaking but pride refusing to retreat. "Who the hell are you supposed to be, huh, you trash bastard?
Minhyuk said nothing. He looked at them the way stones look at weather.
They rushed him all at once, shouting curses, swinging wildly, fear dressed up as anger, but Minhyuk stepped aside calmly, his movements precise and unforgiving. His fist drove into the first boy's stomach, hard and exact, stealing air and arrogance in the same instant, leaving him folded on the ground, coughing and whispering broken curses through clenched teeth.
The second screamed, throwing insults carelessly as he charged, and Minhyuk answered him with a single low kick that thudded against muscle, sending him crashing down, clutching his leg and screaming in panic and pain. The third froze, eyes wide, then fumbled for a knife, waving it clumsily as he shouted threats that sounded more like begging.
"Stay back, you crazy bastard," he yelled. " I swear, I'll kill you, fuck youl!"
Minhyuk stepped inside the swing without hurry, trapped the wrist, twisted hard, and listened to the scream tear out of the boy's chest as the knife fell uselessly to the ground. He forced him against the wall, face pressed painfully into stone, holding him there while curses filled the air, sharp and desperate.
"The bag," Minhyuk said quietly. "Where is it."
The boy swore at him again, and Minhyuk struck him once, open-handed and efficient. "The bag."
The first thief pointed weakly to the corner, and Minhyuk retrieved it without releasing his grip until the Ajumma arrived, breathless and shaking, reclaiming her belongings with shaking hands and endless gratitude before hurrying away.
...
Minhyuk stood beside his cart afterward, the market pressing in around him again as if nothing had happened, his body tight with leftover violence and his spirit hollow with the knowledge that none of this had changed anything.
His phone vibrated.
"Yah, Minhyuk," Junho's voice said loudly over background noise. " We're drinking tonight. Jongno pocha. We're ordering everything."
Minhyuk closed his eyes briefly. "I'm coming," he said. "I need to change."
He returned to his gosiwon, peeled off the long gray shirt, replaced it with clean clothes that allowed him to sit like a man instead of a shadow, and walked into the noise and smoke of Jongno where his friends waited.
Junho waved him over, pouring soju immediately, and pushed the glass into his hand.
Minhyuk drank it in one pull, letting the burn cut through the silence inside him as his friends talked around the truth, waiting patiently for the shame to loosen its grip.
"Market was bad?" Junho asked softly.
Minhyuk poured another drink and nodded. "Very Bad."
And they drank on, letting the night soften the edges of another day that refused to end gently.
The night air pressed against Minhyuk as he left the pocha, the soju warmth fading, leaving a lingering emptiness that no alcohol could fill.
His friends had already drifted into their separate streets, chasing after girlfriends or lingering in their noisy corners, laughing at inside jokes that did not include him. They spoke of names, of casual glances, of dates and crushes, of hearts fluttering under city lights, while Minhyuk walked alone, listening more than talking, feeling the invisible barrier his face created.
He was not ugly; no one could say that. His eyes, his jaw, his strong features were average enough. But the fierce, almost predatory intensity in his gaze terrified women. Even strangers who glanced for a second would recoil, their interest dissolving before it could start. No one ever dared to approach, and over time, the absence of attention had grown heavier than any rejection letter.
Minhyuk's feet carried him past empty streets, the neon lights casting cold reflections onto wet asphalt, his mind wandering between thoughts of failure and the strange, quiet strength that lingered in his muscles after the fight earlier. He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, an old woman sitting under a weak lamp, the makeshift glow barely lighting the little stall of trinkets she had laid before her.
Even at nine in the evening, she had spread her jewels and ornaments, as if the night itself were a market. The sight seemed absurd, nonsensical, almost like a forgotten fragment of another world. He moved past, ready to ignore her and continue walking, muttering under his breath about the impossibility of anyone buying anything at this hour.
Then a voice cut through the quiet, sharp and distinct, calling him directly.
"Young man"
Minhyuk froze, glancing around, thinking it might be meant for someone else. He looked carefully, scanning the empty street, but no one approached or moved. Only he was there. Hesitantly, he raised a finger to his own chest, pointing, as if confirming the impossible. "Me?" he asked softly.
The ajumma nodded, smiling beneath her worn hat. "Yes, you"
He approached slowly, the weight of caution balancing curiosity. The old woman's face, lined with age and laughter, seemed to glow in the pale lamp light. Minhyuk stopped a small distance away.
"Ajumma, Why are you out here at night?" he asked, his voice low, a mix of confusion and concern. "It doesn't make sense. It's already late, barely anyone will pass here."
The ajumma laughed, a sound bright and soft, cutting through the chill air. "This is my life. Buy something, at least one thing," she said, holding out a small wooden tray with rings, bracelets, and small ornaments glinting under the weak lamp.
Minhyuk glanced at the objects, then chuckled quietly to himself. He couldn't help but feel pity for her, her persistence somehow both brave and sad. He reached into his pocket and felt the faint outline of the last money he had—the only coin remaining from the day's work, the five thousand won, a weight in his palm heavier than any failure he had endured.
The ajumma smiled knowingly. "Pick anything you like," she said.
His eyes fell on a ring with a green stone, elegant in its simplicity. Something about it called to him, though he had no idea why. The ajumma's eyes twinkled as he picked it up.
"Aigoo! You have chosen well, young man" she said. "This ring will grant any wish, as long as you shout your name three times."
Minhyuk froze. He looked at her, incredulous, a small laugh escaping him. "Magic?" he asked, incredulity thick in his voice. "You think I believe in such things?"
The ajumma only laughed, soft and warm. "Then try it," she said, her voice like wind over calm water. "If you don't believe, it will not hurt. Just try."
He handed her the coin and slipped the ring onto his finger, the cool metal snug against his skin. He walked away slowly, shaking his head, laughing quietly at himself, yet he could not suppress the strange curiosity that clung to him like a shadow.
Once he was alone, walking down the empty street, the night seemed quieter, stiller than it had moments before. The ajumma's words echoed, oddly compelling, and despite every rational thought screaming against it, he found himself whispering, then shouting softly at first, then louder as he felt a spark of reckless hope ignite in his chest.
"Minhyuk! Minhyuk! Minhyuk! I want to be rich! I want to live well!"
The green stone reflected the dim streetlights, warming under his fingers. He kept it on, sliding it inside his coat pocket as he walked, the sound of his own voice dying into the empty night.
He didn't notice the truck until the sharp sound of brakes and metal grinding reached him. A massive vehicle bore down, its headlights blinding and enormous, the roar of the engine filling his ears and drowning his heartbeat. He tried to move, tried to leap out of the way, but the night was too sudden, the danger too fast. The world exploded in sound, in light, in pain, and Minhyuk's body went limp against the hard asphalt as the noise became everything.
The night swallowed him, leaving only the faint green glimmer of the ring, a small promise in a world that refused to pause.
Minhyuk woke to the sound of a voice calling a name he did not recognize. "Minji!" it rang out sharply, echoing against walls that felt unfamiliar, strange. He blinked, trying to focus, and in the dim morning light, his head throbbed from the accident the night before.
His lips parted, trying to form words, but nothing came, only a whispered, confused murmur "Who… who is that?"
Before he could understand, a hand connected sharply with his face, a slap so sudden that his cheek burned immediately.
"Ah!" he shouted involuntarily, recoiling backward, only to find himself sitting on a soft surface.
His hand instinctively touched his stinging cheek, and the pain made him notice her—an impossibly beautiful woman with bright eyes and a sharp gaze.
The light from the window glinted off her hair, and for a moment, the world slowed. It moved in slow motion, and his chest tightened as something unfamiliar bloomed in his heart. The air itself seemed charged, delicate and alive, as if every particle of dust and sunlight conspired to make him fall instantly, unavoidably, in love.
He tried to gather himself, to say something clever, but his voice cracked, weak and uncertain. "Uh… hi?" he ventured.
She raised her hand again. The slap landed without hesitation. "Ouch! Wait—why did you—" he protested, touching his cheek again, disbelief in his voice. That was when he realized, the sound was undeniably feminine, the tone sharp but not cruel, commanding but playful.
Attempting to speak again, he stammered random, awkward words. "Uh… banana? Soup… maybe… coffee?" Each phrase came out sillier than the last. The woman's eyes narrowed, lips twitching.
She struck him once more, her hand floating with startling speed and precision. "Minji, I think yesterday I did hit your head pretty hard. Don't worry; Today, I might have to slap you a few more times," she said lightly, grinning, though her hand still hovered ominously in the air.
Minhyuk froze. He extended his own hand, stopping it mid-motion. "Wait! Hold on! Please, no more!" he said, half-panicked, half-dumbstruck.
In a rush of confusion, he stumbled toward the bathroom, his heart pounding wildly. The door closed behind him, muffling the sound of the woman's footsteps. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and the reflection shattered every shred of understanding he had of the world.
He—no, she—was not Minhyuk anymore. The person staring back was a woman. Pale skin, long hair falling in careless waves, delicate features, small frame.
The hands were slim, the shoulders narrow, and even the voice that escaped when she whispered was distinctly higher than it had ever been. He reached up, touching the face, the hair, the body. Panic surged through him.
"Why… why… why am I…?" he muttered aloud, voice trembling, utterly bewildered. He tried to recall the night's events, piecing together fragments: the ring at the ajumma's stall, the wish shouted in a reckless, drunken haze, the light, the truck—but everything else had vanished into a fog he could not penetrate.
And then his gaze fell lower. Instinctively, curiosity tinged with fear, he touched the lower part of his body, trembling. "My… my precious… is gone!" he whispered, horror creeping into every syllable. His hands pushed at the pajamas covering the new form, absurdly aware of the impossibility, the utter impossibility of what had happened.
He tripped slightly over his own new form, the pajama pants tangled around hips, slipping in the most awkward way, causing a bizarre, comical stumble. "No, no, no! This can't be happening!" He spun around, arms flailing, until a sharp rap came from outside the bathroom door.
"Stop that, Minji!" The familiar voice, once frightening, now sounded scolding, filled with authority and a hint of laughter. "You are making too much noise! Someone might hear you!"
The woman who had slapped him—Minji—stopped immediately. Her reflection caught her own gaze in the mirror, eyes wide, lips slightly parted in a mixture of shock and exasperation. Then she took a deep breath, pointing toward the door. "Call the doctor. Now. Quickly. I don't want any delays."
Minhyuk shouted, voice cracking, "My… dick… it's gone!"