The Glass Veranda

CHAPTER 11: AN ACCIDENTAL ENCOUNTER

The gunshot from the video still echoed inside Nisa’s head.

It did not fade with the night. It pulsed behind her eyes, throbbing in rhythm with the headache born from sleepless hours. Every time she blinked, she heard it again. The sharp c***k. The abrupt silence that followed. She had not cried. She had not screamed. She had simply lain awake, staring at the ceiling of her Seoul apartment until dawn seeped in like an unwanted witness.

But morning in Seoul did not pause for grief.

The city moved with ruthless precision. Trains roared. Delivery scooters weaved through traffic. Cafés lifted their shutters as if nothing in the world had fractured overnight.

Nisa stood in front of her mirror and studied the woman staring back.

Sarah.

The transformation was nearly flawless now. Dark copper hair fell in deliberate disarray around her shoulders. The pale gray contact lenses erased the softness that once belonged to Nisa Sterling. The woman in the reflection held her chin slightly higher, her gaze steadier, colder.

If the video had been real, Thomsen might already be dead.

The thought hovered in her chest, heavy and metallic.

Yet her logic refused to surrender to panic. She inhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the edge of the vanity until her knuckles whitened.

It was a performance.

If Min hee had truly wanted to kill Thomsen, she would not have done it on camera and sent the footage to his wife. That was not vengeance. That was theater.

Min hee was staging something.

And now it was Nisa’s turn to step onto the same stage.

She left the apartment with measured steps, each footfall controlled despite the tremor threatening her calves. Yeonnam dong was still quiet in the early morning light. The air carried a faint chill, and the streets smelled faintly of damp concrete and brewing coffee.

She stopped in front of a small café hidden behind trailing vines.

Gureum.

The name was painted delicately on the window. Inside, the atmosphere felt intentionally secluded, like a sanctuary built for dreamers and insomniacs.

Through the slightly fogged glass, Nisa saw her.

Min hee sat alone in the dimmest corner of the café. No pistol. No cold fury. She wore an oversized gray cardigan that nearly swallowed her slight frame. Her posture was relaxed, almost fragile, as if the girl from the violent video had never existed.

For a fleeting second, doubt flickered in Nisa’s mind.

She pushed the door open.

The small bell above it chimed. The sound struck her nerves like the opening note of a battle hymn. She forced her shoulders to remain loose as she ordered a bitter espresso. The cup felt hot against her palms when she received it, grounding her.

Then she walked toward the back.

With the calm she had perfected in gallery rooms filled with priceless artifacts, she chose a seat directly behind Min hee. Only a thin wooden chair separated them. Close enough to breathe the same air.

And then it hit her.

The scent.

Sharp lime intertwined with the smell of wet earth after rain. Fresh. Clean. Alive.

The same scent that had lingered faintly on Thomsen’s jackets. The same scent that had haunted the pillows in their London bedroom. It was not an expensive perfume. It felt like skin. Like identity.

Something honest.

Something Nisa did not possess.

Her stomach tightened.

From the corner of her eye, she watched Min hee sketch in a small notebook. Slender fingers moved with restless intensity. There were traces of black charcoal beneath her nails. She bit her lower lip, a habit that betrayed concentration or perhaps suppressed anxiety.

Nisa leaned subtly, just enough to see.

A burning gate.

Flames rendered in violent strokes. At the center stood the shadow of a tall man surrounded by fire.

Her father.

The possibility made Nisa’s pulse spike. Heat crawled up her neck. For one dangerous moment, she imagined grabbing Min hee by the shoulders and demanding answers. Demanding truth.

But Sarah would not do that.

Sarah would wait.

She took a slow sip of her espresso, letting the bitterness spread across her tongue. She counted three breaths. She watched Min hee lift her green tea cup.

Now.

Nisa rose, adjusting her handbag as if preparing to leave. With a movement calculated down to the millimeter, her hip brushed the edge of Min hee’s small table.

The wooden surface shifted.

The tea trembled. A charcoal pencil rolled off the table and clattered onto the floor near Nisa’s feet.

“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Nisa said, her voice laced with convincing surprise. She softened her accent, blurring it into something international and difficult to place. “That was terribly careless of me.”

Before Min hee could react, Nisa crouched and picked up the pencil. The café floor felt cool against her fingertips. When she straightened, Min hee was already looking at her.

Their eyes met.

Min hee’s gaze was large and clear, but there was a depth of sorrow within it that startled Nisa. It felt like staring at an unfinished painting, beautiful yet damaged in its center.

“Thank you,” Min hee said in slightly stiff but gentle English, accepting the pencil.

Nisa allowed two seconds of silence to stretch between them. Just enough.

“That’s a powerful line,” she said, nodding toward the sketchbook. “Are you an artist?”

Min hee hesitated, then offered a faint smile. The same smile she had given Thomsen beneath the neon lights. “I’m just trying to get something out of my head.”

“Often that’s the only way to survive,” Nisa replied, curving her lips into Sarah’s enigmatic smile. “I’m Sarah. I just moved to this neighborhood.”

“I’m Min hee,” she said. Her eyes studied Nisa carefully now. “You look like someone who understands pressure, Sarah.”

A quiet laugh escaped Nisa. It sounded unfamiliar, almost hollow to her own ears. “You have no idea how much pressure I’m under at the moment.”

They spoke for several minutes.

Nisa wove her story carefully, thread by thread. She spoke about longing for authenticity in a world obsessed with appearances. About feeling trapped by expectations. She watched as Min hee’s posture relaxed, as her eyes began to gleam with recognition.

Connection.

The trap was forming.

Then Min hee’s phone vibrated against the wooden table.

The screen lit up with a single letter.

T.

Nisa’s heart lurched violently.

Min hee glanced at the screen, then at Nisa. Something unreadable passed through her expression.

“I’m sorry. I need to take this. It’s from a friend.”

“Of course,” Nisa replied smoothly. “It was lovely meeting you, Min hee. Perhaps we’ll see each other here again?”

“I’d like that,” Min hee said, already lifting the phone.

Nisa turned and walked toward the exit. Each step felt deliberate, controlled. The bell chimed again as she stepped outside into the cool air.

She did not leave.

Instead, she moved along the vine covered wall and pressed her ear against the thin wooden exterior. Her breath slowed. She focused.

Inside, Min hee’s voice changed.

“Yes. She’s here.”

The softness was gone.

“The woman. Sarah. She’s exactly like you described. Beautiful in her sadness. Are you certain she’s the one who will lead us to your father’s vault, Thomsen?”

Everything inside Nisa froze.

The world narrowed into a sharp, suffocating point.

It was not Thomsen deceiving Min hee.

It was not Min hee holding Thomsen hostage.

They were working together.

The shooting video. The sketch in the drawer. The meeting in Gangnam. Every piece had been carefully arranged to lure her to Seoul. To draw her closer to her father’s treasure.

She pressed her back against the wall and stared at the overcast sky.

She had believed herself the predator.

In truth, she had been herded like prey.

A sudden hand clamped over her mouth from behind.

The scent struck her instantly. Sandalwood. Familiar. Intimate.

Her pulse detonated.

“Don’t make a sound, darling,” Thomsen whispered against her ear. His voice was low, almost amused. “Welcome to the real exhibition. You wanted a show, didn’t you? Let’s see who becomes the artwork tonight.”

Her body went rigid as he pulled her backward.

The alley behind the café swallowed them in shadow just as the door opened and Min hee stepped outside. She looked around once, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips.

It was not the gentle smile from the café.

It was victorious.

And as Thomsen dragged Nisa deeper into the darkness, the last thing she saw was Min hee’s eyes scanning the street, certain that the trap had finally closed.