It happened somewhere she didn't expect to feel exposed.
The hospital parking lot.
They had chosen a quieter branch this time, farther from the city center. The appointment itself was simple. Routine. Nothing that should attract attention.
That was the plan.
Ha-rin walked a few steps ahead of me, cap pulled low, mask covering most of her face. Her pace was steady, practiced. She didn't rush. Rushing made people look twice.
Everything was fine.
Then—
"…Ha-rin?"
The voice came from the side. Casual. Unsure.
She stopped for just a second.
Only a second.
Then she turned.
A woman stood a short distance away. She looked familiar in the way people who work around the entertainment industry often do—someone you've seen before but can't place. She wore simple clothes, a work badge clipped to her bag.
Not a fan.
Not press.
Someone who might recognize her face.
"…You are Ha-rin, right?" the woman asked, smiling a little. "I thought so, but…"
Ha-rin didn't hesitate.
"I get that a lot," she replied calmly. "Sorry."
Her voice was light. Natural.
The woman frowned, unsure.
"Oh—really? You look just like her."
"That's what people say."
Polite. Brief. Closed.
The woman laughed awkwardly. "Sorry about that."
"It's fine."
She stepped back, embarrassed, and walked away without another look.
The moment ended.
Ha-rin didn't move.
Her shoulders were tense, her breath shallow.
I stepped closer—not touching her, just near enough.
"…You handled that well," I said quietly.
"…She almost recognized me," Ha-rin replied.
"Yes."
"…She works in the industry," she added. "Not someone important. But still."
"Yes."
She exhaled slowly.
"…That was close."
"Yes."
Her hand moved to her stomach, fingers curling lightly over the fabric.
She noticed.
She didn't pull away.
"…This place was supposed to be safe," she said softly.
"It still is," I replied. "That was coincidence."
"…Coincidences are dangerous."
"Yes."
We walked toward the car.
Her steps were slower now, more careful. Her eyes scanned reflections, glass, movement—everything she usually ignored.
Inside the car, she didn't fasten her seatbelt right away.
She sat there, hands resting in her lap.
"…This is what they mean," she said quietly. "…When they talk about risk."
"Yes."
"…Not proof," she continued. "…Just possibility."
"That is often enough."
She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
"…I thought I could handle anything as long as I was careful."
"You still can," I said. "But the cost is higher now."
She looked at me.
"…Because it's not just me anymore."
"No."
She nodded.
Her hand returned to her stomach, slower this time.
"…I don't regret coming today," she said. "…But I don't want that to happen again."
"That is reasonable."
"…What if next time it's not someone polite."
"Then we adjust," I replied. "We reduce exposure."
She leaned back against the seat.
"…I hate that this is becoming normal."
"It will not always feel this way," I said.
"…You sound very sure."
"I am."
She looked out the window as I started the car.
"…Next time," she said quietly, "…we don't walk."
"No," I agreed. "We don't."
The engine started.
The hospital disappeared behind us.
They had almost been seen.
And that was enough.