The Captain and the Wind

The inspection

Jun entered the cabin, his face a mask of grim determination. He didn’t speak. He simply looked at Yuna, and the message was clear: The performance of your life.

“He wants to meet you,” Jun said, his voice low and urgent. “Remember who you are. Kim Haneul. Orphan. Seamstress. My cousin. You are nervous of authority. You are grateful for my protection. You know nothing of the South. Nothing of parachutes. Do you understand?”

Yuna nodded, her heart thundering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She smoothed down the rough fabric of her skirt, her hands trembling. She was no actress, but she had spent years in boardrooms negotiating multi-million-dollar deals, presenting a flawless, confident facade. This was just another performance, she told herself, only the stakes were her life, and his.

“I understand,” she whispered.

He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before he gently adjusted the woolen cap on her head, tucking a stray strand of hair away. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that her breath hitched. “Your eyes,” he murmured. “Don’t challenge him. Keep them down. Be small.”

Then the moment was over. The soldier was back. He opened the door and led her out into the cold light of day.

Colonel Park was waiting, his hands clasped behind his back, a vulture surveying its domain. His gaze locked onto Yuna, and she felt it like a physical weight—calculating, penetrating, and utterly devoid of warmth. She immediately dropped her eyes to the ground, her shoulders slumping in a semblance of meek submission, just as Jun had instructed.

“This is my cousin, Kim Haneul,” Jun said, his voice formal. “Haneul, this is Colonel Park Seojin.”

Yuna offered a clumsy, shallow bow, the kind a poorly-educated village girl might give. “It is an honour, sir,” she mumbled, layering a thick, country accent over her words, mimicking the flat, guttural tones Jun had drilled into her.

Colonel Park did not respond immediately. He took a slow step closer, circling her slightly. “Kim Haneul,” he repeated, tasting the name. “A pretty name. From Hyesan, I am told.”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered, keeping her gaze fixed on his polished boots.

“A long way from home. Why come here?”

She swallowed, her mouth dry. “There was no work. My… my family is gone. Captain Ryu is my only kin. He offered me work and a roof.” She infused her voice with a tremor of genuine fear, which wasn’t difficult.

“And what work do you do?”

“I mend uniforms, sir. With Lieutenant Kim.”

Colonel Park stopped in front of her. “Look at me, girl.”

A jolt of pure terror shot through her. She forced her head up slowly, meeting his cold, assessing eyes. She kept her expression blank, infused with a dose of simple-minded fear. She was Kim Haneul, a nobody, terrified of this powerful man.

He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. His eyes seemed to strip away the layers of her disguise, searching for the sharp, confident woman underneath. He was looking for Yuna Seo.

“You have soft hands for a seamstress,” he remarked, his voice deceptively mild.

Jun answered before she could. “She has only just started, sir. Her previous work was in a fabric mill. Less rough on the hands.”

Colonel Park’s eyes flicked to Jun, a silent acknowledgment of the intervention. He returned his gaze to Yuna. “You are fortunate your cousin is a man of such… compassion. The army is not a charity.”

“I am very grateful, sir,” Yuna said, bowing her head again, breaking the intense eye contact. “I will work very hard.”

The Colonel was silent again, the pause stretching out, designed to provoke anxiety. Yuna focused on breathing, on being small and unremarkable.

Finally, he turned back to Jun. “You are a good man, Captain. But do not let your familial duties interfere with your real duty. The border does not sleep. And neither should its guardians.” He gave a final, lingering look at Yuna. “Keep your cousin close, Ryu. The world outside this camp can be very unforgiving to pretty, lone women.”

It was both a dismissal and a threat. With a curt nod, Colonel Park turned and strode back to his sedan.

They stood frozen until the car disappeared down the mountain road, the silence left in its wake louder than any explosion. The moment it was gone, Yuna’s legs buckled. Jun’s arm shot out, steadying her, his grip firm on her elbow.

“Easy,” he said, his voice rough with unspent tension.

She looked up at him, the fear finally overwhelming her. “He knows. He doesn’t believe it.”

Jun’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed on the dust cloud. “He suspects. There is a difference. But suspicion is enough to get us both executed.” He finally looked down at her, and the fear she saw in his own eyes terrified her more than the Colonel’s cold scrutiny. “He was testing me. Us. And he will test us again.”

He led her back into the cabin, his hand still on her arm. Once the door was closed, he released her, pacing the small room like a caged tiger.

“We cannot stay here,” he said, more to himself than to her. “He will have someone watching now. Every move we make.”

“What do we do?” Yuna asked, her voice small.

He stopped pacing, his decision made. “We move you. Deeper into the village. There is a widow, Mrs. Oh. She runs a tea house. She minds her own business and asks no questions. You will stay with her. We will have no more contact unless absolutely necessary.”

The finality in his voice felt like a physical blow. The fragile connection they had built, the quiet moments, the almost-kiss—he was severing it all to create a firewall between them.

“No contact?” The words were a whisper of protest.

“It is the only way to protect you,” he said, and this time, there was no coldness, only a raw, desperate honesty. “What happened today… I cannot let that happen again. I cannot be the reason you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Yuna understood. The Colonel’s visit had made the abstract danger terrifyingly real. Their secret was no longer just theirs. It was a ticking bomb, and Jun was moving her out of the blast radius.

That evening, as a bitter wind whipped around the cabin, Jun gathered a small bag for her. Hana arrived, her expression grim. She would be the one to take Yuna to Mrs. Oh’s.

There were no goodbyes. Jun simply handed Yuna the bag, his fingers brushing against hers. His eyes held hers, and in their dark depths, she saw a universe of things he would never say: regret, fear, and a longing so profound it shook her to her core.

“Remember who you are,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Kim Haneul.”

“I will,” she promised.

Then Hana touched her arm, pulling her away, out of the cabin, and into the swirling snow. Yuna glanced back only once. Jun stood in the doorway, a solitary, rigid figure silhouetted against the warm firelight, watching her disappear into the storm he was sending her into to keep her safe.

As she followed Hana down the dark path, the cold seeping through her clothes, Yuna made a silent vow. She was not just a secret to be hidden. She was the wind that had crashed into hi

s life, and she would not be so easily contained. She would survive this. For him.