The city slept under a blanket of neon and haze, skyscrapers rising like silent sentinels. From his cramped apartment twenty stories up, Kyungsoo didn't see streets or power lines. He saw life as streams of data pulsing invisibly beneath the surface, a hum only he could hear. Everyone else navigated the chaos blindly; he navigated it like water, slipping through cracks no one else could find.
Tonight, he wasn't after money. He was chasing a ghost—a security protocol so elegant, so smug, it had been taunting him for weeks. K-Industries owned it, a corporate monster that devoured rivals without blinking. Kyungsoo didn't care. He wasn't in it for the money. He was in it for the thrill. For the challenge. For the quiet, electric rush of knowing he could do what no one else could.
His fingers danced across the keyboard, each keystroke a percussion note in a symphony only he could hear. The first firewall fell with a lazy shrug. The second—a clever little bastard—resisted for seventeen tense seconds before bowing. The third… the third didn't even know he was there.
And then, victory. Or so he thought.
Instead of sterile, corporate servers, he found… silence. Almost intimate silence. This place smelled of careful thought, obsession, and something painfully human. Folder names weren't functional—they were poetic: Echoes. Fragments. Skyline.
Kyungsoo's curiosity, that reckless little demon, seized control. Skyline first.
It was a gallery. Sketches, dozens of them, each a fragment of loneliness. A penthouse view of the city, repeated again and again, yet never the same. Rain streaked the glass in one, sunlight warmed concrete in another. Each stroke carried a quiet ache, a longing for something beyond wealth, beyond appearances.
Next, Fragments. A hidden social media profile under the cryptic handle @Cae_lum. No selfies. No glossy parties. Just ramen bowls half-eaten, stacks of old books, and musings about indie films Kyungsoo secretly adored. Someone hiding in plain sight, a life lived quietly, carefully.
Finally, Echoes. A journal, the latest entry dated yesterday:
> Another board meeting. Another dinner where I shook a hundred hands and felt nothing. They see the company, the money, the name. But do they see me? The person who just wants to watch the rain streak against the glass?
Kyungsoo's chest tightened. This wasn't a corporation. This was a person. Taemin. The golden boy heir of K-Industries, grinning from every magazine cover, untouchable to the world. And here he was, reading his private thoughts like… like they were a poem meant only for him.
He was about to disconnect, to erase himself from the scene entirely, when a new window blinked open. No name. Just a cursor.
[Admin]: Enjoying the view?
Kyungsoo froze. Not anger. Not threats. Calm. Amusement. Almost… teasing.
His fingers trembled. He typed, careful not to betray panic.
[User_7G!x]: Just passing through.
[Admin]: You're the first person to ever get past the welcome mat. Most people are after bank details, not bad poetry.
Kyungsoo's pulse raced. He knows what I saw.
[User_7G!x]: The sketches… they're good. You have a good eye for light.
[Admin]: A critic. I'm flattered. What should I do with you, my quiet little ghost?
The words hung in the air like a thread, pulling him closer. Fear mixed with fascination, and his hands shook despite himself. This wasn't the untouchable billionaire everyone gawked at. This was someone human. Someone alive. Someone who drew rain.
[User_7G!x]: I'll be gone. You won't hear from me again.
[Admin]: I doubt that.
Kyungsoo yanked the cables from the wall, heart hammering like a drum. Silence enveloped him, and for a moment, the glow of the city outside did nothing to calm the storm inside. He thought he was safe. He thought he was invisible.
Then his phone buzzed. One notification. One message request. From K-Industries. From Lee Taemin.
Four words.
"I know it's you."