It was strange, Ji-hoon thought, how even the most extravagant funerals in Seoul felt cold.
Cold, not because of the air-conditioning humming through the sleek black hall, but because no amount of chrysanthemums or expensive incense could soften the sharp emptiness left by one human life disappearing.
Especially his life.
Especially Grandfather.
The Kang family patriarch, the man newspapers once described as "the iron lion of Seoul," lay in a pristine white coffin surrounded by tall floral arrangements shaped like factory chimneys and corporate headquarters — reminders of the empire he had built and ruled for nearly fifty years.
Executives bowed mechanically.
Politicians murmured their condolences.
News cameras waited outside for a headline.
Relatives whispered behind impeccably manicured fingers.
But for Ji-hoon, none of that mattered.
He stood in the farthest corner, behind a column, entirely unseen — exactly how the family preferred him.
He tugged at his stiff collar. This suit belonged to his cousin, not him. Even now, at the funeral, he wore borrowed clothes. Somehow it felt ironic.
His cousin's voice carried from the front. "Where is Ji-hoon? Is he late? Typical."
Someone snickered.
"I told you he'd come looking like a lost intern."
"Still useless, even today."
Ji-hoon swallowed hard and stared down at his shoes.
The Kang family had always been this way with him — clipped, sharp-edged, finding fault in things he didn't even know could be wrong. It wasn't that he was stupid. Or rebellious. If anything, he was simply... ordinary. Something his family had no tolerance for.
Grandfather was the only one who had ever looked at him like he wasn't a mistake.
The only one who believed he was capable of something more.
And now he's gone.
The priest finished the final rites, and everyone moved toward the main hall where the will was to be read. Ji-hoon lingered back. He hadn't expected to be included. Not really.
He followed quietly, slipping to the back of the large conference room. The heavy oak table at the front glowed under the chandelier, gleaming like it belonged in a museum rather than a funeral hall. Kang Min-kyu and Kang Sang-ho — his powerful uncles — took their seats with the smug confidence of men who already knew victory was coming.
Around them sat lawyers in expensive suits and relatives who, for years, had pretended to love the patriarch just enough to secure their future shares.
Ji-hoon stayed standing.
The lawyer began.
"To my eldest son…"
Glory, money, property.
Shares.
Voting rights.
Factories.
Expected.
"To my second son…"
More of the same.
A buzz of satisfied whispers crept through the room. His uncles exchanged smug glances.
Each paragraph felt like another stitch tightening around Ji-hoon's chest.
He shouldn't care.
He truly shouldn't.
But when you've been invisible your whole life, some foolish part of you still hopes the person who loved you most left you some sign — anything — to say you mattered.
He braced himself when the lawyer flipped to the last page.
"Finally, to my grandson, Kang Ji-hoon…"
There was a pause.
A long, painful, suffocating pause.
Then:
"I leave my property at Itaewon — a bar known as 'Nightshade.'"
Silence.
Complete silence.
Then—
"What?!"
"You're joking!"
"That failing place?"
"Ahahaha—!"
The room erupted in mocking disbelief.
"That dump? The old man must've gone senile."
"He gave him a bar? Is he punishing him?"
"He probably assumed the boy would mess it up like everything else."
His uncles didn't laugh — but their smirks were worse.
"A bar," Min-kyu said with a slow shake of his head. "How fitting."
Sang-ho leaned back. "He always wanted to play bartender anyway, didn't he?"
Heat burned behind Ji-hoon's ears. He could feel every sneer, every pitying glance, like needles.
A bar.
A bar in Itaewon.
A failing one, most likely.
Something the family didn't want.
Something worthless.
Something meant to humiliate him even in death.
The lawyer cleared his throat.
"There is also one more item… addressed personally to Mr. Kang Ji-hoon."
Everyone turned.
The lawyer handed him a small wooden box.
"What's that?" someone demanded.
Ji-hoon bowed slightly and murmured, "Excuse me," before hurrying out.
He didn't care to open it in front of them.
He needed air.
OUTSIDE — THE WIND FELT LIKE FREEDOM
He stepped onto the stone courtyard, breathing the cold January air deeply.
The sky had begun to dim. It looked heavy, like snow was waiting to fall.
He sat on a bench beneath a bare tree and opened the box.
Inside was:
- A single old brass key- A folded piece of paper- A small black-and-white photo of his grandfather standing in front of a tiny bar
Ji-hoon unfolded the note, trembling slightly.
"Ji-hoon,
If you are reading this, I trust you will understand this small gift more than the others ever will.
This bar was once my beginning, long before the conglomerate existed.
Protect it.
There are things in this world worth saving more than money.
People, especially.
Nightshade has always been a refuge.
Now it is yours."
— Grandfather."
His throat tightened.
The old man had left him something meaningful — just not in the way others valued.
A small, humble refuge.
A beginning.
A responsibility.
Ji-hoon wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
"…I'll try, Grandfather. I'll try."
THE FIRST NIGHT AT NIGHTSHADE
Itaewon was glowing by the time he arrived — neon signs reflecting off wet pavement, music from cafes spilling into alleys, people laughing loudly, rushing, living.
Nightshade sat tucked between a tattoo shop and a vintage record store.
A small wooden sign hung crookedly above the door.
A dim purple lantern flickered weakly.
The paint was peeling.
The doorframe slanted slightly to the left.
It felt… strangely alive.
He pushed the door open.
The scent of citrus cleaner and old wood drifted out.
Inside, warm amber lights cast a soft glow over mismatched tables and a bar counter with scratches deep enough to tell stories.
A man in his mid-thirties looked up from polishing a glass.
"Ah. So you're the little master."
Little master.
Ji-hoon blinked.
"Uh… yes. I'm… Kang Ji-hoon."
The man set the glass down and extended a hand.
"Park Woo-sung. Bartender, manager, electrician, plumber. Sometimes therapist."
Ji-hoon's lips twitched. "Therapist?"
"You'll see." Woo-sung smirked. "Nightshade has that effect."
Before Ji-hoon could ask, a soft voice drifted from the kitchen door.
"Woo-sung. Table three wants water refills."
He turned.
And paused.
A woman stood there wearing a simple black apron, her hair tied in a messy bun. She wasn't striking in the dramatic, idol-like way — but her presence was quietly breathtaking. Calm. Soft. A kind of serenity that felt impossible in Itaewon's chaos.
She looked at him with unreadable dark eyes.
"You're the new owner."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes." Ji-hoon bowed quickly. "Kang Ji-hoon."
"…Lim Hana."
Her voice was low and steady, like a lake at dawn.
Something about her gaze made his heart skip in a way he didn't understand.
Woo-sung clapped Ji-hoon's shoulder. "Hana's our chef. Or well… cook, for now."
Hana disappeared back into the kitchen without another word.
Woo-sung grinned.
"She's quiet. But she's the best thing that ever happened to this bar."
THE FIRST SHIFT
Nightshade wasn't crowded that night — just a handful of customers.
A young couple whispering at a corner table.
A foreigner tapping his fingers to soft jazz.
An elderly man sipping soju as if savoring memories.
Woo-sung showed Ji-hoon the basics:
"Pour slow, not like you're filling a water bottle."
"Smile. You look like someone stole your wallet."
"Don't let customers push you around. But don't fight either."
"The bar remembers everything. Try not to break it."
Ji-hoon tried his best.
He spilled twice.
Forgot an order.
Poured beer too quickly and created a mountain of foam.
Woo-sung saved him each time, chuckling.
Hana occasionally peeked out of the kitchen, expressionless, then returned inside.
By 1 a.m., the place was quiet again.
Most customers had left.
Ji-hoon exhaled. "Today was… harder than I expected."
"Tomorrow will be harder," Woo-sung said cheerfully.
"Helpful."
"You're welcome."
AND THEN HE HEARD IT
A soft tapping sound.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Like someone gently knocking — not on the front door, but somewhere inside.
Ji-hoon froze.
"…What was that?"
Woo-sung didn't look up from wiping the counter.
"Ah. That's for you."
"For me?"
"It starts on your second night."
"What starts?"
Woo-sung turned to him, face serious for the first time.
"Go check the storeroom."
Ji-hoon hesitated.
"Now?"
Woo-sung nodded once.
"You inherited Nightshade, right? Then you need to see everything."
His heart thudded.
He walked slowly toward the back hallway.
The storeroom door creaked as he opened it.
Inside, shelves were lined with old wine bottles, dusty jars, cardboard boxes, and a broken freezer that hadn't been plugged in for years.
Tap. Tap.
The sound came from behind it.
Ji-hoon's fingers trembled.
He reached out and pushed the freezer.
It didn't move.
He pushed harder — and it slid slightly to the side.
Revealing —
A panel.
A hidden wooden door.
Old, scratched, almost invisible unless you knew it was there.
His breath caught.
He looked back.
Woo-sung was watching silently from the hallway.
"Go on," he said softly.
Ji-hoon pushed the panel open.
A narrow, steep staircase descended into darkness.
A faint, warm light flickered below.
And he heard the tapping again — not knocking, but chopsticks gently tapping a bowl.
Someone was down there.
Eating.
Ji-hoon swallowed and stepped inside.
THE FIFTH TABLE
The air was different here — warmer, scented with broth, herbs, and nostalgia.
Candles cast long shadows on old brick walls.
Four small tables sat neatly arranged.
Curtains hung like veils.
And at the far end, beneath a single hanging lantern, a lone figure sat at a round table — the fifth one — silently eating.
A hood covered the person's face.
Only their hand moved, lifting a spoon slowly, deliberately.
Ji-hoon stepped forward.
The guest didn't look up.
Didn't speak.
Didn't acknowledge him.
When the bowl was nearly empty, the figure placed a folded napkin on the table, stood up, and walked past him without a sound.
Ji-hoon turned, startled.
"Excuse me—"
But the figure disappeared into the darkness of the staircase.
He rushed back up.
The door creaked.
Woo-sung stood with his arms folded.
"That," he said quietly, "was a Fifth Table guest."
"…Who are they?"
"Someone who needed a place tonight."
"What do I do if they come back?"
Woo-sung smiled softly.
"Exactly what the old master did."
"What's that?"
"Nothing. Just be here."
THE NOTE
Ji-hoon picked up the napkin.
Two words were written in elegant handwriting:
"Don't sell."
His chest tightened.
Woo-sung put a hand on his shoulder.
"Nightshade isn't just a bar, Ji-hoon."
"What is it then?"
"A home," Woo-sung said.
"A home for the broken."
Hana appeared in the doorway, her eyes softer than he'd seen all night.
She added quietly,
"And now… it's yours."