When I woke up in the morning, my first thought was— I don't want to go to work.
My second thought was— I don't have the money not to go to work.
The alarm was screaming on my bedside table. I grabbed my phone, shut it off, and stared at the screen for a few seconds.
In the notifications sat a screenshot from the manager: this week's shift schedule. My name was nailed there under tonight's slot:
22:00–06:00.
I stared at those numbers and the image of the convenience store rose in my mind by itself—
The AC, the fluorescent lights, the microwave, the fridge, the smell of cleaning fluid… and those two men who absolutely did not belong in that scene.
One of them only dared say three sentences to me a day, but had stood up like a shield in front of that strange long-haired man. The other one walked in and dragged the temperature of the air down with him, speaking like he was delivering a sentence.
— "Don't come here tomorrow night."
Silent Man's words still rang in my ears.
I turned over, buried my face in the pillow, and exhaled into the cotton.
"…I really want to call in sick."
But to call in sick you need a reason, and on top of the reason you need courage. I had neither.
All I had were rent, utilities, internet, student loans, and bills that were obviously beyond me.
I opened the chat with my coworkers, wanting to ask if anyone would swap shifts. I typed "Tonight's shift—" and deleted it.
If I said, "Two weird guys said they're going to duel here tonight and I'm scared of getting caught up in it," a normal person would probably just reply with a question mark.
In the end, I didn't send anything.
**
At nine-thirty that night, I went out with my little shoulder bag like usual.
The convenience store sign glowed in the distance like a save point that never shuts down. Every step I took toward it felt very clear, so clear it was almost funny.
Apparently, only people who are really broke will still clock in on time even after hearing that "weird things might happen" in there.
After I punched in and changed into my uniform, the manager was in the back counting stock. He glanced at me. "That drunk old guy who lay outside the door for half an hour last night—he didn't come back to bother you today, did he?"
"...Huh?" I froze for a second before realizing he had no idea what actually happened last night.
"No."
"Good." The manager didn't even look up. "There've been more weirdos on night shift lately. Keep an eye out. If something happens, call me—though I probably couldn't win in a fight anyway."
I snorted, and my mood loosened a little.
If even the manager didn't know about what happened yesterday, that meant—
Either the security footage glitched, or those two did something to it.
Thinking that far only made me less willing to ask.
At ten, I stepped up to the register and went through the usual motions:
Scan, quote the price, make change, say "Thank you, come again."
Time trickled past. The sounds in the store slowly condensed into a single layer—
The "ding" of the microwave, the hum of the fridge, the chime of the door sensor.
After they repeat long enough, they start to feel like a lullaby.
Until that familiar chime rings.
I look up.
It's him.
Silent Man.
Tonight he's a bit earlier than usual—only ten-thirty. It's just rained outside; fine droplets cling to his shoulders, and there's a faint wet sound when his soles touch the floor.
He looks at me as soon as he walks in.
Not that sneaky, pretending-to-scan-the-shelves kind of glance, but a direct one, like he's checking whether I'm still alive.
His gaze makes me a bit self-conscious. "…Good evening."
His Adam's apple moves, like those three words snagged his heartbeat as well.
"You came anyway," he says quietly.
"What else would I do?" I shrug. "If I don't show up, who's going to ring you up?"
I meant it as a joke, but he doesn't laugh. His eyes only tighten.
"You could… call in," he says slowly, each word bitten off. "Go to a friend's place. Go anywhere. As long as it's far from here."
"I don't have that many friends," I answer bluntly. "And the manager will kill me."
He falls silent for a moment, fingers clenching around something in his jacket pocket.
"Better your manager stays alive and you don't," he murmurs, "than the other way around."
I look at him, feeling like I want to laugh, but can't.
"Can you be a bit clearer?" I finally can't hold it in. "That long-haired guy from yesterday—who is he? What duel game are you two playing? And what's with this 'ownership' crap? That sounds super illegal."
He presses his lips together.
For a moment, a very dark color flashes in his eyes— like something pressed under a seal pushing up from the bottom.
"The less you know, the better," he says at last.
"Please. Any excuse will do—fake a stomachache if you have to. Just leave."
"I'm not a middle schooler asking to go home early because my tummy hurts," I sigh. "Besides, if I leave, what about you?"
He blinks, says nothing.
I look at his profile.
His features are clean. The lines aren't rough, but there's a hardness there you can't ignore. Not the kind you get from the gym—more like something your bones grind out for themselves after being under pressure for too long.
"I think you're scared of him," I blurt out.
He drops his gaze and goes quiet for two seconds.
"…What I'm scared of," he says softly, "is that once you meet him, you'll turn into someone even you don't recognize."
I don't get the chance to ask more. He flinches like he's afraid he's already said too much, and steps back.
"I have to go on duty," he changes the subject. "I might… come by later tonight."
"What duty?" I blurt.
He looks at me again. There's a lot he doesn't say in that one glance.
"…You'll find out," he says.
Then, as if escaping my questions, he grabs a can of his usual drink, tosses some coins on the counter, and walks out.
The sensor chimes. The door shuts a little harder than usual.
I stand there, watching his back recede through the glass.
I know he's hiding something.
I just don't know which is worse— being kept in the dark, or knowing the truth.
—— [Male Lead's POV] ——
She still came.
Sethiel was right.
Humans are always like this— Even when they see the cliff ahead, they keep walking because it's the road they're used to.
I stand under the arcade outside the store, pretending to be an ordinary passerby, my back against the wall. My eyes haven't left her through the glass once.
Her uniform is a little worn; the collar's been washed pale. She's tied her hair up in a messy way, exposing a small strip of skin by her ear—thin, white.
Every customer who comes to buy something has to walk past her.
Her "Thank you, come again" isn't loud, but it's steady.
I know none of this has anything to do with me. I know I should do what Sethiel said: take my curse and stay as far away from any light as possible.
But as long as she stands under that too-bright ceiling at the register, I can't turn my back.
The radiation detector rests quietly in my palm. The numbers on the screen are normal. No abnormal spikes.
But I don't need those cold numbers to tell me danger is near—
I can smell it.
It's an old smell. Familiar. Like that night a thousand years ago, when the fire of war reached the edge of the forest, and the wind dragged blood and burnt wood to my feet.
After that night, I never smelled flowers on her again.
Now she's standing inside a convenience store, next to a cheap coffee machine and microwaved lunches. Yet the scent around her overlaps with that forest in my memory.
Bit by bit. Thread by thread. Slowly seeping out.
It's her.
Even if I've forgotten her name, forgotten her face, forgotten what happened between us—
I still know it's her.
Sethiel knows it too.
That's the problem.
I glance up at the sky.
The clouds hang low, like something heavy is about to fall out of that grey.
He's coming.
—— [Female Lead's POV] ——
Time grinds its way to eleven-thirty.
Outside, it's raining again. Drops streak down the glass in thin lines. There are hardly any pedestrians left on the street; only a few taxis pass every now and then.
It's brighter inside the store than outside. So bright it's almost harsh.
I'm crouched in the drinks aisle, pushing the bottom row of bottled water forward to restock, when the door sensor dings above my head.
Reflexively, I say, "Welcome—"
The rest of the sentence dies in my throat.
It's him.
The Long-Haired Man.
He hasn't brought an umbrella today. Rain runs down his hair onto his shoulders, but doesn't make clear drops on the floor— as if the water evaporates before it hits.
He walks in at the same unhurried pace as last night, almost graceful.
This time, he doesn't look for Silent Man— because Silent Man isn't in the store.
His gaze lands straight on me.
Suddenly I feel like I've been targeted by something.
"…Can I help you, sir?" I stand up and force on my customer smile.
"You."
He says.
That single word doesn't carry any emotion. If anything, it sounds like he's ordering off a menu.
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Sorry, we don't sell staff here."
A small smile tugs at his lips—as if he's mildly amused, or watching some animal that hasn't realized what it is yet.
"What's your name?" he asks.
I freeze. "…That's a little much for a first-time customer—"
"Not the first time," he cuts in, calmly denying it. "I've been looking for you for a long time."
"…I don't remember owing you money," I say, a bit guilty, a bit defiant.
His gaze lingers on my face.
The way he looks is strange— not checking whether I'm pretty, not weighing if I'm worth flirting with, but confirming whether some image that's overlapped in his mind a thousand times matches what's in front of him.
My scalp prickles.
"Your name," he repeats, like he's claiming something that already belongs to him. "Tell me."
"…What for?" I mutter. "It's not like you're filling in a survey."
"You don't have to say it." He smiles. "I can read it myself."
I assume he means my name tag—there is one on my chest, though I've pinned it crooked for so long the print is partly scratched off.
But he isn't looking at my chest.
He's looking at—
my eyes.
In that instant, I feel something cold touch my gaze. Like an invisible tendril sliding along my eyeballs and into my head.
It doesn't hurt, but it's deeply uncomfortable— like someone rummaging through a box of old things I don't want touched.
"Wait—" I instinctively step back, trying to turn my head away, but my ankles feel nailed to the floor.
He doesn't move closer, doesn't raise a hand. He just looks.
For a few seconds, the world goes silent. The AC, the fridges, the rain—they all fade into the distance. All I hear is my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
Then he speaks.
"Jiang—Han—Na."
He draws out every syllable, slowly, like savoring something he hasn't tasted in a long time.
My back tightens. "How do you—"
I'm sure I've never told him my name. I didn't hear him ask for it last night either.
Customer receipts only print our employee numbers, not our full names.
So how—
"This name," he muses, looking at me, "suits the way you are right now."
"…The way I am now?" I tighten my grip around the pen in my hand. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Not awakened yet," he says gently.
When he speaks, his eyes shift for a moment.
Not the deep brown from earlier. Ink with a drop of gold, spreading slowly from the center of his pupils.
My chest suddenly feels hot.
Not my heart—deeper than that. Like there's a stone buried inside me, and someone just tapped it.
A current shoots up my spine. I suck in a breath.
"Who… are you?" I hear myself ask.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, looking toward the glass door.
Outside, the rain has stopped at some point. The wet street glows under the neon, exactly like last night.
"My name is Sethiel," he finally says, as if it's trivial. "For now, you can think of me as—"
His gaze comes back to me. The gold in his eyes has fully opened.
"—someone who's here to witness your change."
"…Change?" I echo. "Change what—"
Before I can finish, the sensor chimes.
Silent Man bursts through the door.
He usually walks like he's afraid to disturb anyone. Right now, he's practically sprinting, fast enough that he almost slips, shoulder slamming into the doorframe without slowing.
His eyes find Sethiel first, then snap to my face.
"Stay away from her," he almost snarls.
The sound startles me— not because of the volume, but because of what's in it.
Fear.
And killing intent.
Sethiel raises a brow.
"Perfect timing," he says, like tonight's show is finally starting. "I just heard some good news."
He turns to me and smiles, and the smile is infuriatingly good-looking.
"Jiang Hanna," he says my name again, this time each syllable like a declaration. "You think you're just a convenience-store clerk, don't you?"
My throat tightens. I can't answer.
He doesn't wait for me.
"But a long time ago," he continues, head tipped slightly as if watching a picture only he can see, "that's not how your name was spoken."
"In the forest, where the light fell. When everyone looked up to pray—"
"Your name was louder than any blessing."
My fingers dig into my palm.
"I don't understand what you're talking about," I manage. "You've definitely got the wrong person."
"Impossible," Sethiel denies, softly, almost tender. "Blood remembers."
When he says "blood," something almost sickly-bright burns in his eyes.
I shiver.
Silent Man suddenly steps in, fisting Sethiel's collar and yanking him away from the counter.
For the first time, I see Silent Man actually use strength— the line of his arm tenses, muscles under the uniform waking up; his eyes aren't the usual dark, evasive black, but carry a harsh, desperate light.
"Sethiel." He bites the name out, one syllable at a time. "Don't talk like that in front of her."
"See?" Sethiel says to me, tilting his head, completely ignoring the hand on his collar. "He's always like this. Always trying to cover everything up for you."
There's a hint of amusement in his tone—like he really does find it funny.
"But he keeps forgetting…" Sethiel smiles faintly. "Light can't be covered."
Silent Man's knuckles tighten.
"You still have a choice," he rasps, looking at me. "Turn around now. Walk away. Never come back here—"
"No," Sethiel cuts in. "She's already heard her name."
He turns back to me.
For a ridiculous second, I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads— one path leading to the ordinary life I know, the other into somewhere I can't see the end of.
And I'm not the one walking.
It's my name pushing me.
"Do you think you're ordinary?" Sethiel asks me slowly. "You think your whole life will just be this? Convenience store. Small room. Worn out where no one can see you?"
His voice is light, but it sounds exactly like the thoughts I don't dare say out loud.
My mouth opens, but no words come out.
"That's a pity," he says.
"Because you were never ordinary."
As he says that, the lights in the store flicker with a harsh buzz.
The AC pauses for a second. Then resumes.
Like someone, somewhere, has quietly flipped a switch.
Sethiel's smile deepens.
"Your name has finally come back," he murmurs. "Now it just depends on whether you want to wake up."
When those words land, I feel that buried stone in my chest crack a little wider.
Outside, the rain has started again. At some point, without me noticing.