Chapter 1
1524 Words
In the neon glow of Seoul in 2026, midnight hung in the air like a heavy breath. It wasn’t the kind of night that felt alive. It felt still—like the world had exhaled and forgotten to breathe in again.
Lee Na-eun slumped against the vibrating window of the nearly empty bus, her body feeling like lead. Exhaustion clung to her bones—one of those deep, unshakable kinds of tiredness that only corporate workers truly understand. It wasn’t just physical.
It was emotional too, the kind of fatigue that makes everything feel slightly out of reach.
As a junior coordinator in the Archive and Research department of a marketing firm, her life was nothing but spreadsheets and silence. Numbers instead of dreams.
Deadlines instead of possibilities. No applause. No recognition. Just work that disappeared the moment it was finished.
Her boss—a man whose expression never softened—always found new ways to pile work onto her desk.
That meant her commute home usually began long after the rest of the world had gone to sleep.
She often wondered if he even noticed she was human, or if she existed only as another line in a report.
Outside the bus window, city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red. Na-eun drifted toward sleep, eyelids fluttering, when the bus suddenly screeched to a violent halt.
Her head struck the cold window with a sharp, sickening thud. The impact rattled through her skull, chasing away the fragile peace of drowsiness.
“Ugh!” she groaned, gripping her throbbing temple. Pain radiated through her skull, chasing away the drowsiness. It was sharp and immediate, like a reminder that she was still here—still struggling.
“Why is my life always like this?” she muttered. “Working until I can barely stand, and now a concussion to finish the night. I could smash this window.”
The words came out half-joke, half-truth. Sometimes she imagined breaking something—just to feel like she had control.
The driver’s voice cut through her frustration—flat and indifferent.
“Ma’am, we’ve reached your stop. Please exit.”
Na-eun forced a small, sarcastic smile as she stood. It wasn’t genuine, but it was easier than showing how tired she really was.
“Thank you for letting me know,” she said, shooting the driver a look. “And extra thanks for the headache.”
The driver didn’t respond. That was fine. She didn’t expect him to.
Stepping onto the pavement, the night air bit at her skin. It was colder than she expected, a sharp contrast to the bus’s stale warmth.
Anger toward her boss simmered inside her. Not the explosive kind—more like a quiet ember.
“If I could, I’d chew that man alive,” she muttered. “Two hundred revisions on a single file, and he still humiliates me in front of everyone.”
She imagined telling him off. Imagined walking away. For a brief second, quitting crossed her mind—an escape from everything.
But then she remembered her grandmother.
After her parents passed away, her grandmother had sacrificed everything to raise her.
There were late nights of storytelling, simple meals, and quiet encouragement. Between rent in Seoul and the money she sent back to the village, giving up was not an option. She owed her grandmother more than failure.
“Stay strong, Na-eun,” she told herself, tightening her grip on her bag. The words were small, but they mattered. “You can’t lose this battle.”
Lost in thought, she hurried forward—and collided with something solid.
The impact spun her around. Her bag slipped from her shoulder, scattering carefully organized files across the wet pavement. Papers fluttered like small white birds, landing in puddles.
“No… no, this cannot be happening!” she cried. The words burst out of her, raw and frustrated.
She looked up, ready to unleash her anger on whoever had blocked her path—but the words died in her throat.
A man stood before her.
Dressed in a simple black shirt and trousers, he looked like a shadow beneath the streetlamp—quiet and strangely elegant. His features were sharp, almost otherworldly handsome. Not intimidating, but impossible to ignore.
Na-eun froze. For a second, she simply stared. It wasn’t attraction. It was surprise—an interruption in the ordinary rhythm of her night.
The stranger didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on her with an unreadable intensity. It wasn’t hostile. Just… observant.
Then, snapping back to reality, Na-eun barked, “Do you not have eyes? You should watch where you’re going!”
Her voice was sharper than intended. Defensive. Because vulnerability felt dangerous.
He said nothing.
“Unbelievable,” she huffed, kneeling to gather her papers. “He causes the accident and doesn’t even apologize.”
It was easier to be angry than to feel embarrassed.
To her surprise, the man crouched beside her and began picking up the scattered sheets with careful hands. He didn’t rush. He didn’t handle the papers carelessly.
It was a small gesture, but it mattered.
When the files were back in order, Na-eun turned to leave. She wanted distance—space to breathe.
But a firm grip caught her wrist.
Her heart jumped. Not in fear, but in sudden awareness.
“How dare you? What kind of weirdo grabs someone like this?” she shouted, voice echoing down the empty street. The reaction was instinctive—self-protection.
The man looked regretful.
“I am sorry,” he said. His voice was low and strangely soothing. It wasn’t an excuse. It was an apology.
“For dropping your bag. I didn’t mean to scare you. My name is Moon Si-woo.”
Na-eun blinked, thrown off by his tone. It wasn’t aggressive. It was sincere.
“Fine. Whatever.” She pulled her hand free. The contact lingered for a second—nothing more.
“I’m leaving.”
“What is your name?” he asked.
The question surprised her. No demands. No assumptions. Just curiosity.
“Lee Na-eun,” she answered curtly. Then she turned and walked away, refusing to look back.
Si-woo remained in the shadows, watching until she disappeared. He didn’t follow. He simply stood there, like a figure in a story that had yet to begin.
Na-eun finally reached her small rooftop apartment—a tiny space with one bedroom and a modest kitchen. Rent was expensive, but she had decorated it with fairy lights and small trinkets to make it feel like home.
The lights weren’t extravagant, just little sparks of warmth in an otherwise quiet room.
Without changing clothes, she dropped her bag and collapsed onto the bed.
Sleep claimed her quickly.
Next morning, sunlight spilled through the thin curtains, warming her face. It was soft and ordinary—a brief relief.
Na-eun groaned and stretched. But when her eyes opened, she froze.
Sitting beside her on the bed was a jet-black cat.
Its eyes glowed like amber—watchful, almost human. Not threatening. Just present.
“Ahhh!” Na-eun screamed, scrambling back. “Where did you come from? Did I bring you home and forget? Has my brain finally melted from overwork?”
The words were half panic, half disbelief.
The window was wide open—a silent explanation.
She sighed. The cat must have slipped inside. It wasn’t the first stray she had seen in the city.
Pointing a finger at it, she tried to sound stern.
“Listen, tiny intruder. I barely take care of myself, let alone a pet. I didn’t even change out of my work clothes last night. You need to leave.”
The cat didn’t move.
Instead, it tilted its head—curious, calm. Not demanding. Just observing.
Something in that gaze struck her.
Loneliness.
It mirrored her own.
Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out and picked the cat up. Its fur was soft and warm—an unexpected comfort.
“You don’t have anyone either, do you?” she whispered.
Since you came from the moonlight, I’ll call you Leo.
The name felt right—small, but meaningful.
Na-eun carried Leo to the kitchen and poured milk into a small bowl.
“Here. Eat. I didn’t have dinner either, so we’re both starving.”
Leo lapped up the milk.
Na-eun sat on the floor beside him, nibbling dry toast. It wasn’t much of a meal, but it was enough.
For the first time in a long while, she felt able to speak.
“You know, I work until I break,” she murmured. The admission was quiet, but honest.
“But the salary never feels enough. I can’t remember the last time I bought something just for myself.
My dream is simple—too simple, maybe. I just want to walk down a quiet street at night and eat ice cream without worrying about tomorrow.”
Leo stopped drinking and looked at her.
Those amber eyes seemed to understand—at least in the way animals sometimes do. Not with words, but with presence.
And for a brief moment, Na-eun didn’t feel quite so alone.
- Writer
