2025, Haneul-dong, outskirts of Seoul — where neon lights flickered like lazy fireflies and the air carried the faint scent of pine, ramen broth, and city dust. It wasn’t the fancy kind of neighborhood with rooftop cafés or luxury gyms. No, this was the kind where dogs barked at midnight, scooters roared past every few minutes, and the ahjumma next door somehow knew everything about everyone.

You lived on the second floor of the pale gray apartment across from Hyun’s Convenience, a 24-hour store that glowed like a tired heartbeat in the dark. Your window faced it perfectly—too perfectly, maybe—because every time you peeked through the blinds, there he was.

Hyun Bin. The so-called “jobless” man who somehow owned a whole convenience store. Rumor said he lived off his parents’ money. Another said he got rich off crypto. And one even claimed he was an ex-corporate guy who just snapped one day. Nobody knew for sure. He never explained, and honestly, he looked like he didn’t care what anyone believed.

He lived beside the store, in that dark, quiet house with black curtains and a parked motorcycle that gleamed like a threat. Sometimes he was seen carrying boxes, other times just sitting outside with a cigarette and a can of soju, staring at his phone like those red and green lines were whispering secrets to him.

Your friend Jaegu worked part-time there—same age as you, same broke energy. He liked to say he worked “for fun,” but you both knew it was because being unemployed in your twenties wasn’t fun. The two of you often hung out by the convenience store’s freezer, complaining about life, ramen prices, and why nobody ever called back after interviews.

Every now and then, Hyun’s voice would cut through the chatter.

“Ya, Jaegu! You dropped the cans again, idiot!”

You’d laugh. He’d glare. And somehow, that weird dynamic between the strict boss, the careless part-timer, and the jobless neighbor became the rhythm of your street.

But that night was quieter than usual. The sky was heavy with clouds, the street almost empty except for the low hum of vending machines. You stepped out for air, hoodie pulled over your head, and there he was again—Hyun, sitting on that same plastic chair like he owned the night. Smoke trailed lazily from his hand, the glow of his phone reflecting in his glasses.

He noticed you before you could pretend otherwise. His lips tugged slightly—not quite a smile.

“Still jobless, I see.”

You stopped mid-step. Is he being sarcastic or serious?

You squinted at him. “Still nosy, I see.”

He chuckled under his breath, low and brief, before taking another drag. “Touché.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The street was still, the soft hiss of the cigarette filling the space between you. You looked at the glowing charts on his phone—lines of red and green that made your brain hurt just looking at them.

He glanced up, one brow lifting. “the hell ya looking for?"

For some reason, that shut you up. Not because it was deep—but because it was weirdly him.

You stood there for another second, half-annoyed, half-amused. He went back to staring at his phone like the world didn’t exist, and you went back to wondering why a man who looked that calm could make you feel so... unsettled.

Weird guy, you thought. But somehow, the night didn’t feel so heavy when he was around.