He let go of my hand.
But our eyes… stayed connected.
For a moment, I stood frozen—just staring.
What the hell is wrong with me? Did my type in men change overnight?
No. No way. I'm just admiring a handsome face. That's all.
It's not like I'll ever see him again.
.
.
.
Huh?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!
The next time I saw him, he wasn't in a shady club or mafia file.
He was standing outside a house.
In. Our. Neighborhood.
Flashback — the day after Club Nebula
After the long night at the club, I came home and dropped onto my bed like a dead body.
Didn't change, didn't shower—just slept. Hard.
The next morning, it was Sunday.
Mom and Dad had gone for some picnic thing with their office team.
The twins? Who knew. They vanished like ghosts and didn't even bother replying to texts.
Typical teens. Try asking where they're going—you'll just get a shrug, a snort, and a door slam.
I rubbed my sleepy eyes and stared at the kitchen.
"...No way I'm cooking for myself."
So I grabbed my wallet, shoved on flip-flops, and walked to the nearby convenience store.
Still in my pajamas.
Messy bun. Sleepy face. No bra.
Why?
Because comfort.
The store was just around the corner, and I could taste the cup ramen in my dreams already.
And then—
There. He. Was.
Blue eyes. Sharp jaw. The same face from last night.
He stood next to the ramen shelf, silently eating, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
My stomach flipped. Not from hunger.
Oh God.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
No masks. No loud music. No lights. Just the harsh white glow of cheap ceiling bulbs and the scent of soy broth.
He blinked, then smirked slightly.
Like he recognized me.
Like he was amused.
Why is he here?
What are the odds?
Was he following me? No. That's ridiculous. Right?
I reached for the ramen, trying to pretend I didn't notice him.
"You again," he said, voice low, teasing. "You stalking me?"
I snorted. "Please. I live around here. What's your excuse?"
He shrugged. "Moved in yesterday."
My brain paused.
...Moved in?
"What?" I blinked.
He pointed out the window. "House across the park. With the broken mailbox."
I knew exactly which house. It had been empty for months.
"Oh," I said. Brilliant reply. Oscar-worthy.
"You always shop in pajamas?" he added, giving me a slow once-over.
"Only when I assume I won't run into men I accidentally punch."
He chuckled. A deep, rumbling sound that somehow made the ramen shelf feel like a battlefield.
"Guess you're wrong twice now."
I grabbed my ramen and marched off without replying.
Outside, the wind hit my bare legs and I cursed everything—my pajamas, my hormones, and definitely that stupid, smug face.As if the mafia and drug busts weren't enough stress for one girl to handle…
Now I had him—a walking embarrassment hazard—added to the chaos.
Just perfect.
Ha! I went back to my room, ate my ramen straight from the cup, and knocked out like a panda in hibernation.
Next morning, I got to the office groggy, only to find the senior detectives already interrogating the guy we had caught last night at Club Nebula.
His name?
Ryu Min-jae.
He hadn't said a word so far—just his name. No lawyer. No fuss. Just blank silence like he was waiting for something... or someone.
With no other choice, we administered Sodium Thiopental, our last resort—a truth serum, legally approved under emergency code for national crime division.
Under its influence, Ryu Min-jae confessed to one thing:
> "I was told to call Director Choi to that building… but I didn't know he was going to die. I was paid just to get him there."
The building he referred to?
Where journalist Choi...
Found Dead in Bluebell Street, Apartment 3B, Gangan Rise Complex.
The same place where journalist Choi's body had been found with three stab wounds, one to the chest and two to the back.
So now, we had:
A dead journalist.
A card connected to underworld.
A paid lure with no idea who hired him.
Wow.
Just what we needed.
Another damned puzzle to solve.