Seoul in autumn felt like a different world.
Not the heavy, rain-soaked streets of Busan where neon lights reflected off bloodied alleys, but a city painted in soft shades of amber and gold. The trees lining Yonsei University's main avenue were shedding their leaves in slow, lazy spirals, littering the sidewalks in carpets of yellow, rust, and crimson. The air held a crispness that nipped at the skin, but it was clean and carried the faint scent of roasted chestnuts from old vendors on street corners.
The university itself was alive with the quiet hum of evening. Students spilled out of lecture halls and libraries, some with books under their arms, others with coffee cups clutched tightly in hands barely warmed by fingerless gloves. The distant clatter of a basketball court mixed with the soft strains of a guitar being tuned by the amphitheater. Here, life was untouched by the darkness festering in the south.
And in the middle of it all sat Seo Hana.
Twenty-four years old, a second-year master's student in Modern Literature, she was the kind of beautiful that felt effortless. Not the type that plastered herself with filters or flaunted designer labels, but the sort that shone quietly in the way her deep hazel eyes caught the light, how her unstyled shoulder-length hair, the color of dark chestnut, always fell perfectly into place. She wore a soft grey sweater under a cream-colored coat, paired with denim jeans and simple white sneakers. Around her neck hung a delicate silver leaf pendant — a family keepsake she never removed, a gift from the grandmother who raised her.
Hana sat outside Hwa Coffee, a tiny old café squeezed between a bookstore and a flower shop. It was her usual spot. A dog-eared copy of The Little Prince lay open on the table before her, though her eyes weren't on the page. She was watching the world.
She liked this time of day — the way the sunlight thinned out, the air turned sharper, and the entire city seemed to hold its breath before night took over. Here, she could forget about thesis deadlines and late-night cram sessions. About the small ache in her heart, she never quite named.
At the table beside her, her best friend Chae-Rin was busy angling her phone for the perfect photo of their drinks — a tall iced Americano for her, a warm vanilla latte for Hana, and a slice of strawberry chiffon cake neither of them intended to finish.
"Hold on," Chae-Rin muttered, frowning at the screen. Her hair was bubble gum pink today, tucked into a loose beanie. "Okay, smile, Hana."
"I don't want to be in your Instagram post."
"It's not Instagram. It's my close friends' story," she lied, grinning, snapping the shot anyway. "You look like you're starring in some tragic French film. Again."
Hana gave a small, genuine laugh. "I like sad movies."
"Yeah, we noticed," chimed in Min-Jun, the perpetually drowsy film major sprawled across a chair beside them, earbuds dangling around his neck. He stretched lazily, long limbs awkward as a newborn deer, and yawned. "You should come to the night market with us later. There's this new grilled mochi stall. You'll love it."
"I have to finish my paper," Hana said, though she knew she probably wouldn't. Not tonight.
"You always have a paper."
"I like it this way," she shrugged, taking a sip of her drink. "It makes the good days stand out more."
It was a simple thing to say, but it landed in the quiet space between them, settling like a familiar comfort.
Around them, campus life moved on.
A group of freshmen with paint-smudged hands rushed past, some trailing laughter as they chased each other with empty soda bottles. A tall boy was strumming a guitar under a tree nearby, his voice thin but earnest. The orange glow of the setting sun bathed everything in gentle warmth, blurring the edges of the day.
For a brief moment, it felt like nothing bad could exist in this world.
Hana leaned back in her chair, letting the breeze lift strands of hair across her cheek, closing her eyes for just a second. She tried to hold onto the feeling — of safety, of belonging, of simple evenings shared with people who knew her heart.
She didn't know, couldn't know, how far south the darkness had crept.
Didn't know about the blood-drenched alleys of Busan, about the invisible hand wiping out entire crime syndicates, or a broken man whose rage was still on the move.
For now, her world remained bright and untouched.
But fate had already begun stitching invisible threads between their worlds.
And somewhere in the distant night, a storm was still gathering.