The Captain and the Wind

The Widow's Brew

The tea house was a low, smoky structure that seemed to lean into the mountain for support. It smelled of pine resin, fermented cabbage, and the faint, cloying scent of ginseng. For Yuna—now Haneul—it was her new prison, albeit one with a roof and a fragile kind of safety.

Mrs. Oh was a woman whose face was a roadmap of wrinkles, each one earned. Her eyes, however, were preternaturally sharp, missing nothing. She accepted Hana’s terse explanation—"A cousin, needs work, quiet"—with a slow, deliberate nod, her gaze lingering on Yuna’s too-soft hands.

“You can sweep. You can wash cups. You can stir the pot,” Mrs. Oh said, her voice like gravel. “You do not speak to the customers unless they speak to you first. And you never, ever ask questions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Yuna replied, bowing her head.

Her world shrank to the dimensions of the tea house: the soot-stained kitchen, the main room with its rough-hewn tables, and the tiny, windowless storage closet where she slept on a thin pallet. It was a harsh, monotonous existence, a brutal contrast to her life of luxury. She scrubbed floors until her knees ached and her hands were raw. She served bitter tea and harsh rice liquor to soldiers and villagers who barely glanced at her.

It was exactly what she needed. Invisibility.

But invisibility allowed for observation. She learned that the tea house was the camp’s unofficial nervous system. Here, secrets were traded as currency. She heard the soldiers talk, their guards down after a few cups of soju.

She heard the name “Captain Ryu” spoken with a mixture of respect and wary curiosity. They talked about his brilliance in the last border skirmish, his uncanny ability to anticipate enemy patrols. But now, they whispered about his “cousin,” the pretty seamstress who had vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. The ghost story had evolved, but it hadn't died.

She never saw Jun. His absence was a physical ache, a constant, low-grade alarm in her system. He was keeping his distance, just as he’d promised. It was the smart play, the tactical move. But it felt like a surrender.

One evening, a new group of soldiers swaggered in, their uniforms slightly different, their demeanor more arrogant. They were from the Internal Security Bureau, the regime's political police. At their head was a man with a lean, wolfish face and the cold eyes of a true believer: Lieutenant Choi Gwan, the investigator.

Mrs. Oh went still, her usual gruff demeanor replaced by a watchful tension. “Lieutenant Choi,” she said, her tone carefully neutral. “An honour.”

Choi Gwan ignored her, his gaze sweeping the room like a searchlight before landing on Yuna, who was wiping down a table. “You. Girl. More soju.”

She kept her eyes down, bringing the bottle to the table. As she set it down, his hand shot out, not to take the bottle, but to grip her wrist. His fingers were like iron.

“You’re new,” he stated, his voice low and probing.

“She is my niece. From the countryside. She is simple,” Mrs. Oh interjected quickly, a note of fear in her voice that Yuna had never heard before.

Choi’s eyes narrowed, dissecting Yuna. “Simple? She has the eyes of a city fox.” He leaned closer, his breath smelling of tobacco and malice. “What is your name, girl?”

“Kim Haneul, sir,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“And where is your family?”

“Gone, sir.”

He smiled, a thin, cruel s***h. “How convenient.” He released her wrist with a slight shove. “Captain Ryu’s little seamstress. The one who disappeared. I find it interesting how things… disappear… around the good Captain lately.”

He knew. He might not have proof, but he had connected the dots. Yuna felt a cold dread seep into her bones. This man was not like Colonel Park, who was a political animal. Choi Gwan was a hunter, and he had just caught her scent.

As his group drank, Choi held court, his voice carrying. “Loyalty is the highest virtue,” he proclaimed, staring pointedly at the other soldiers. “But blind loyalty to a man, over the state… that is a cancer. And a cancer must be cut out.”

The message was clear. He wasn’t just investigating a stray South Korean; he was investigating Captain Ryu Jun.

Later, as Yuna took out the trash, a shadow detached itself from the side of the building. She gasped, stumbling back, before she recognized the tall, solid frame.

Jun.

He was here. In the flesh. He looked older, wearier, his face etched with a tension that hadn't been there before.

“You should not be here,” she hissed, her eyes darting back toward the tea house. “He’s inside. Choi Gwan.”

“I know,” Jun’s voice was a low, urgent rasp. “That’s why I’m here. Are you alright? Did he hurt you?”

The concern in his voice, so raw and undisguised, made her throat tighten. “No. But he knows. He’s looking for a reason to move against you.”

“Let him look,” Jun said, a flicker of his old steel in his eyes. “He will find nothing but a loyal soldier.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped package. “Here. Food. Medicine for your hands.”

He had noticed her raw, chapped hands. The simple, practical kindness of it undid her. “Jun… this is too dangerous.”

“I told you I would keep you safe. That promise is more important than his suspicions.” He took a step closer, the moonlight catching the hard line of his jaw. “Listen to me, Haneul. There is a man. An old friend. His name is Park Min-gi. He is a trader. If anything happens, if you feel the net closing, you find him. He operates near the old mine shaft to the east. Tell him I sent you. Tell him… tell him the Nighthawk needs a favour.”

“Nighthawk?” she whispered.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “An old callsign. From a different life.” His hand came up, and for a breathtaking moment, he cupped her cheek. His palm was rough, warm, real. “You are not alone in this.”

Then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone, melting back into the shadows from whence he came.

Yuna stood shivering in the cold, the package clutched to her chest. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her stomach. But now, it was tempered with something else, something fierce and defiant.

He was still fighti

ng for her. And she would be damned if she would be the reason he fell.