Chapter Text
One, two, you're the “girl” that I want
Three, four, five, six, seven, shit
Eight is the bullets if you say no after all this
And I just couldn't take it, you're so motherfuckin' gorgeous
Han Jisung’s life was the kind that smelled like instant noodles and burnt cigarettes. His apartment leaned with the rest of the city’s forgotten buildings, walls stained by time and regret. Every day was the same—morning lectures he barely stayed awake for, a dead-end shift at a 24-hour convenience store, a smoke under the flickering streetlight, then sleep, if you could call it that.
But one night, something would happen that would change his life forever.
It was nearing three in the morning, and Jisung’s body ached for the comfort of his bed. The convenience store was drowned in silence, the kind that made the buzzing of the fluorescent lights sound almost alive. Then, with a hiss and a mechanical chime, the automatic doors slid open—the first sign of life in hours. Jisung lifted his head, ready to mumble a tired greeting, but the words caught in his throat.
A man stepped inside, his face buried beneath the shadow of a baseball cap and the hood pulled tightly over it. The air seemed to shift. Jisung nearly scoffed—he looked like a cliché from one of those late-night stalker films—but the thought vanished as quickly as it came when the stranger began walking toward the counter, each step heavy, deliberate, and far too quiet for comfort.
The man pulled out his wallet, then pointed past Jisung toward the glass case filled with nicotine products. He lifted his head just enough to mumble that he wanted a pack of Marlboros. Jisung nodded, his words catching in his throat. When their eyes met, he caught a glimpse of the man’s—a deep, unsettling shade of brown that seemed to pierce straight through him. The chill of it made him shudder as he unlocked the case.
“What's your name, kid?” The man’s voice cut through the quiet air, sharp enough to make Jisung flinch. He quickly grabbed the pack of cigarettes and set them on the counter.
“Han Jisung, sir.”
He wasn’t sure why he answered—or why he sounded so damn respectful. It wasn’t like he got paid enough to be polite at three in the morning. Maybe it was those brown eyes, the kind that made his stomach twist.
“No need to be so formal, kid. I don’t bite.”
Jisung swore his heart skipped when the man smirked at the end of that sentence.
“Your, uh… total is ₩4,500,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.
“You’re not gonna ask my name after I asked yours? How rude.”
There was no bite in the man’s tone—just teasing—and that somehow made Jisung even more off-balance. Why was this guy trying to chat with a convenience store clerk at 3 a.m.? Most people barely grunted when he spoke to them, yet here this stranger was, pulling him into a conversation he didn’t know how to escape. Totally not weird at all…
“Oh—uh, sorry…? Um, what’s your name then?”
Jisung winced the moment the words left his mouth. Smooth. Real smooth. He wanted to sink into the floor for how his voice tripped over itself. The man noticed, of course—his lips curved into a quiet chuckle that somehow made Jisung’s chest feel too tight.
“It’s Lee Minho. Nice to meet you, Han Jisung.”
Hearing his name spoken like that—steady, low, almost amused—sent something strange through him. When Minho lifted his head, Jisung forgot what air felt like. The man’s eyes were even prettier up close, warm brown and steady, framed by bleach-blond strands that slipped from under his cap. He looked older, but not by much. Maybe a year or two. Enough to make him seem effortlessly sure of himself in all the ways Jisung wasn’t.
Minho’s face was unfair—soft in the light but carved just enough to make his smile dangerous. And Jisung’s heart, traitorous thing, wouldn’t stop flipping in his chest.
“How much do I owe you again? Sorry,” Minho asked, rubbing the back of his neck like he was the flustered one.
“Oh—uh, it was ₩4,500,” Jisung said, trying not to sound like he was counting every heartbeat.
“Right. Thanks, sweetheart.”
The word landed too easily, too casually, like it meant nothing. But it hit Jisung like a spark to dry tinder. Just a stranger’s voice, a fleeting smile—and suddenly his whole night felt different.
But just as the night was starting to get interesting, Minho paid for his cigarettes and turned to leave. Without thinking, Jisung called out before he could stop himself.
“Wait!”
Oh god, why was he doing this?
To make matters worse—or maybe better—Minho turned around, that same faint smirk curling on his lips like he’d been expecting Jisung to call out. The way his eyes lingered—sharp, unreadable—made Jisung’s stomach twist.
“What’s up, sweetheart?”
That same damn endearment nearly made Jisung jump over the counter, but he somehow stayed put, trying to sound calm—which he absolutely was not.
“Uh… will I be seeing you around?”
Damn it, he sounded pathetic.
Minho’s chuckle was soft, almost knowing. “Trust me, kid. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me around.”
He said it like a promise. Or a warning.
And then he was gone, disappearing through the automatic doors and into the night, leaving Jisung lightheaded and strangely uneasy. He couldn’t explain why—but something in that smile felt like it was already watching him….
For the next few days, Jisung didn’t see Minho anywhere—despite what he’d said that night. Why even promise to stop by again if he wasn’t going to? Jisung told himself to forget it. The guy was attractive, sure, but Jisung didn’t have the time or energy for distractions like that. Still, his thoughts kept circling back—Minho’s voice, his eyes, the way he’d lingered just a little too long before leaving. He caught himself replaying it, over and over. Pathetic. He needed to stop. So he did what he always did: buried the feeling, and let the dull rhythm of his life take over again.
Until the nights started to change.
He began waking up around three in the morning, pulse racing for no reason he could name. At first, it was nothing more than a strange heaviness in the air—a prickling at the back of his neck, the sense that someone was standing just beyond the window. Then came the sound: a faint rustle, the curtain swaying as though brushed by fingertips.
Jisung told himself it was the wind. He even laughed about it once. But the laughter didn’t reach his chest. Because deep down, some quiet, foolish part of him wondered if maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t the wind at all.
And if that wasn’t strange enough, the things Jisung saw on his walk home at night were starting to blur the line between exhaustion and hallucination. Shadows moved where they shouldn’t. Streetlights flickered like they were warning him of something. Maybe it was paranoia—or maybe something was actually there.
More than once, he spotted a man standing beneath a streetlamp, smoke curling from a cigarette, a cap hiding his face. Just like Minho that night. Every time, Jisung stepped closer, pulse hammering, hoping and fearing it was him. It never was. But the resemblance was too precise, too deliberate. He told himself he was imagining it. He had to be. Still, Minho’s image clung to him like cigarette smoke he couldn’t wash off.
There was a girl in his political science class—pretty, normal, safe. She’d been flirting with him since the first day and had even given him her number. Maybe she’d say yes if he asked her out. Maybe he could use her to forget. That sounded cruel, but so was the way Minho had gotten under his skin. So tomorrow morning, he’d do it. He’d ask her out.
But deep down, he already knew—someone wouldn’t like that idea.